Clean-up in Aisle 7.

A friend of mine commented on my most recent posting by saying I must be in a good mood again, because I only rant about things when I'm in a good mood. The rest of the time I'm just angry.

Having only two moods does cut down on possible ambiguity, which is helpful because I really only have one facial expression and it can best be described as "poker."

I could try arguing that I'm actually a more finely nuanced person than that because sometimes I'm hungry, thirsty, horny or watching Glee, but those aren't so much moods as they are tendencies.

It's completely true. I'm ranting or I'm angry, which may explain why not a single one of my friends has ever asked me to babysit. It also demonstrates that I may just be a highly evolved amoeba.

Ranting and being angry aren't the only things I do well, in my defense. I'm also exceptionally good at being in denial. Denial may in fact be the closest I get to happy.

Why bother whether the glass is half full or empty? Why not just ignore the fact the glass exists at all and save everybody an untenable argument? Also, if I ignore the glass I won't have to wash it, so there's really no down side.

Denial has been working well for me, but lately friends of mine seem intent on messing with my completely reasonable and healthy approach to romantic failure.

For example, I really enjoy having my friend and work colleague stop by my office for a chat, but when she asks me whether I've heard from Alex and have I thought about what I'm going to do about that whole situation and how am I feeling about it now? -- my memory fails.

I don't know what she's talking about. I don't know who she's talking about. I don't even know who she is, so she should probably get the hell out of my office.

This level of denial and deflecting of issues is relatively easy to pull off, provided I keep my thinking to a minimum. I only need enough brain capacity to drive, eat, pee and use the TV remote. Anything more and there could be problems and by problems I mean tears and snot.

On one hand I'm fortunate that I can do this at all, because the object of my unrequited affection lives more than 400 kms away. This decreases the threat of running into him and his new gf to slightly more manageable levels.

On the other hand, this distance seems to act as a signal to everybody else that it should be much easier to move on, and in fact I really need to do so. Like, right now. Get over him and just get underneath somebody else, for the love of God.

Given we've established I only have two moods, (three if you count denial) I'm skeptical of this advice. If there was a line-up of eligible men in uniform waiting patiently at my door I could see how I might want to take a baby-step toward somebody else. Anybody else.

There is no line-up however, so the most amusing part of these conversations are the suggestions for where I should be meeting eligible men.

Many days I really don't know whether to laugh or cry, which is natural considering neither option fits with the only two emotions I'm willing to entertain.

The grocery store for example, is brought up so frequently one would think you could order up a man in the deli just as long as you specify a small, medium or large container.

Apparently attractive single men spend hours roaming around grocery store aisles, just waiting for frazzled looking women to come dashing through the store because they forgot their dinner recipes called for ingredients.

What is supposed to happen next when a frazzled looking woman is standing in the same produce section as an attractive man is a mystery though.

I have a theory on why nobody knows what should happen next to bring these two star-crossed people together over suspicious looking melons. Nobody can explain it, because it's never happened. Nobody ever actually picks up in a grocery store - it's an urban myth.

Hollywood is to blame. Characters are constantly finding love at the supermarket, and I can see why it's an easy convention. Everybody goes to the grocery store unless you're a shut-in, really famous, fabulously wealthy or Lady Gaga. Since I'm none of these things (yet) I do spend a lot of time buying food.

If life were actually a romantic comedy, I'd be tripping over Jake Gyllenhaal when we both reach for the same discounted chicken breast and somehow our respective shopping baskets get jumbled and I end up going home with men's deodorant and he ends up with my box of tampons. Somehow we must find each other again to make things right. Shenanigans ensue.

Life is not a romantic comedy. People meet in the grocery store in movies all the time because it's easy, not because it's realistic.

People vanish in movies all the time due to random instances of quicksand, and yet you don't hear much about that in real life either.

"Hey - Did you hear about Phil?"

"No - What happened?"

"Quicksand! Gone just like that! Turned around for a second and all that was left was his hat. Kind of a bummer because he had my house keys."

"Shit!"

Conversations like this don't take place, because they would be ridiculous. Just the same, perfectly intelligent people still seem to think grocery stores are Mecca for lonely women and hot men.

I'm not saying an attractive man has never stepped foot in a grocery store - not at all. I've seen several, and on one occasion even trailed one from the bakery section to the dairy and back to the bakery before deciding I should stop being creepy.

What I am saying is that an average looking mortal woman would have difficulties executing any kind of charm or seduction while squeezing avocados. Even if a hot grocery shopping dude was standing right there, what in the world to say?

Perhaps I can share that I've heard about a recipe for guacamole that includes bacon, and I think it would be awesome if I licked it off his chest. Or just ate bacon. Maybe I could start with a hello, and he could marvel at the boldness of Jehovah's Witnesses nowadays or grow concerned that I'm obviously developmentally delayed because I'm standing in a grocery store saying hello to random strangers and should really be chaperoned.

We'll just never know, because through careful analysis of science and statistics, falling victim to quicksand has been proven 1,000 more likely than falling for my next horrible break-up in a grocery store.

A fact I'm also choosing to ignore and deny until I'm forced to find a low-hanging tree branch and miraculous rescue.

Caution: Highly Flammable. Also easily annoyed.

I'm not a patient person in most regards. Waiting peacefully in tranquility is nearly impossible unless it's for dessert or revenge, but there are a few exceptions.

For example, I may roll my eyes at the elderly person ahead of me in the grocery store line who appears to believe there's a million dollar prize available for paying with exact change, but I'll wait.

By the time you're old enough to have shrank two feet and feel comfortable leaving the house with a tricked out walker, blue perm and a plastic kerchief tied around your head to protect said blue perm from the slightest possibility of rain, I figure you've damn well earned the right to do whatever the hell you want.

I will however come close to a psychotic break waiting for the Mommy who's allowing her three-year old to unload the entire cart, presumably because she finds it adorable, or perhaps because she secretly wants me to die of an embolism waiting to pay for my Weight Watchers Double Fudge Cakes.

Children have not yet earned the right to make me wait and they won't qualify at all until they turn 21. Of course if they're male, attractive and 21 I'd probably want to sleep with them so in those instances my patience would increase accordingly.

(In my own mind I'm Madonna so this would constitute completely acceptable behaviour.)

(It would so, so let's not judge.)

It's not just people who test the very last traces of my patience - I'm equally intolerant of inanimate objects. I have thought for many years that there needs to be a moratorium placed on paintings of fruit bowls and flowers in vases. Enough is enough.

Any value that might once have existed in artistic renderings of objects normally situated in the middle of dining room tables has long ago been lost to time.

I no longer have patience for leggings, more specifically the concerning trend behind leggings as pants. I actually love leggings in the same way I love Spanx - both are convenient to wear under items designated as clothing, but I can no longer give leggings in place of proper bottoms a pass.

The same actually goes for women who just don't wear any form of pants. In these instances I long to see some leggings, because leggings do beat having to stare at errant va-jay while impatiently waiting to go up a flight of stairs.

For once and for all, a shirt is not a dress. It just isn't. The trick to finding out whether an item qualifies as a shirt or a dress is to hold it up to the shoulders. If it covers the rear and some leg, congratulations, because it's a dress. If it doesn't quite cover the rear, it is a shirt.

There is nothing wrong with owning a shirt -- I have several. There is something wrong however with pairing the shirt with no pants, stripper heels and a Guess purse constructed of triple the fabric than contained in the shirt and heading out to the club.

Yes, I have somehow become an old bat who doesn't understand kids these days. I'm fine with it, because I'll need pants for the cats to shed all over when I inevitably begin hoarding them.

Next time I'm having a fortune cookie.

A friend of mine claims to have a spirit guide. This guide is apparently an angel, and she "communes" with him all day long over even the smallest decisions.

Frankly, if there is an afterlife and I come back as somebody's spirit guide I'm going to be really pissed at having to tell some fruitcake whether to buy the organic soy milk or regular every day.

My friend feels at one with the universe at all times, and will occasionally stop mid-sentence because the energy flow is too overwhelming in that moment, and she needs to just "be in that moment."

I foolishly assume that if I can see her standing there that qualifies as her being in that moment, but her definition of being seems to be much deeper than mine.

I'm not entirely sure how it is we're still friends.

I do appreciate being exposed to such a different perspective however, even if that perspective is batshit most of the time. This appreciation was why I chose to attend an annual event and exhibition she coordinates every year, dedicated to the intuitive arts.

There were all the usual suspects. People selling Tibetan prayer flags and singing bowls, aura photography, chair massages, laser therapy where you pay actual money to lie on a cot with a cloth over your face while a multi-bulbed lamp blinks different colours at different times over your body. Actual. Money.

There were palm readers and tarot readers, hippie drum circles and several people touting the benefits of EFT Therapy.

(For those without the benefit of a friend who claims to talk to angels and arranges an annual festival dedicated to anything science can't prove, EFT Therapy stands for The Emotional Freedom technique, some times known as Tapping Therapy. Because that's what you do - tap.

If you're dealing with stress, trauma, anxiety, addictions or pain you can supposedly free yourself from any and all issues by gently tapping your finger on one or more of ten acupressure points on your body.

I know this because when I was going through some pretty serious fucking trauma, a counsellor referred me to an EFT therapist who would "absolutely cure" me. I would be a changed person, with no trauma, no issues and no physical pain. Success rate is claimed at over 90% and I would never have another panic attack again.

An hour of alternating between tapping the side of my head and the inside of my wrist while being forced to listen to whale sounds on a cd did absolutely cure me of two things -- not feeling like an utter moron and my faith in humanity.)

(Also, it is actually physically impossible to walk for 50 metres in this city and not encounter a hippie drum circle. I swear to God there are more hippie drum circles then there are fire hydrants, and this is terrifying.)

The friend I went with was having her tarot cards read and her wrist tapped at the same time so I wandered away to price out singing bowls. A young looking guy sat alone in the booth next door, with a sign that advertised his natural intuitive abilities.

His price for a 15 minute reading was a bargain compared to others, so I decided I'd sit down at his table and find out if he could tell me anything I might already know.

Even though I'm a cynical, skeptical, pessimistic bitch I do enjoy the odd psychic reading now and then. I've actually had a few readings that were eerily, eerily prescient.

One psychic I saw listed off the names of all of my friends and knew my nickname in university before I even said a word. Another warned me I'd have problems with my pelvic bones and I thought she was full of shite. Years later I really wish I'd kept her phone number.

Too many people who choose to frequent psychics give away too much information. The psychic who has no supernatural abilities at all is just really good at reading the client and making educated guesses. Real or imagined, feeling as though you have a handle on what's happening next is still more comforting than a repeated tap to the forehead.

Much like the advertised benefits of EFT, psychics often attract the desperate, the sad, the confused or anybody who simply wants to know it will be OK in the end. If a person calling herself a psychic can provide some comfort that way, then it really doesn't matter to me if she's making it up as she goes.

My psychic was taking a moment with his eyes scrunched and closed, attempting to "see." Apparently communing with the universe looks a lot like having a really hard bowel movement.

His eyes flew open and he told me a door was opening for me. Do I know what that means?

I had no idea what that means. Personally? Professionally? Trap door? Doggie door?

His eyes scrunched shut again. I was starting to feel responsible for his psychic constipation, because I could see how I might be difficult to read.

I'm currently choosing to deal with any of the more hurtful situations in my life by allowing myself a long period of denial. If I don't think about something then it doesn't exist. Perhaps this attitude was blocking whatever signal he was tuning into.

Finally he got something. There are doors opening professionally, but romantically a door seems to be closing.

Goddammit.

The psychic must have received some kind of cosmic laxative, because there was more.

It's so demoralizing isn't it? All the doubts and terribly negative emotions that come when that door closes. He kept something from you. Kept you in the dark. Kept it hidden, didn't want you to know about it. He's shared it now but not all of it. He's passionate about something and you can't be a part of that. Give it six months though. That's all - six months. But in the mean time do NOT do anything to compromise yourself. You MUST be true to yourself. Do you know what I'm referring to?

Umm...I might.

The universe had some insights regarding my working life too.

You're somebody at work that everybody goes to with questions all the time. They want your time, they want your help and you have no idea why at all. They know to go to you but you don't understand why they do. You need a better job. Find something you love doing and just do that.

This part is very true. I do need a better job and I have no idea why anybody comes to me for anything at work. More than 90% of the time I'm talking out of my ass and the rest of the time I'm at lunch.

Time was running out considering he sat there so long with his face scrunched, and there were only a few minutes left for one more question.

For the first time I told him something about myself. I told him that I write sometimes and I'm going after some free-lance contracts. Is that a waste of time?

No scrunching this time.

You write about what's made you embittered and you write because you're angry and don't stop doing that. Whether you make money at it depends on how hard you work.

Admittedly I was a little surprised at how specific his answer was. I decided to test him, and so I acted slightly indignant and asked what if I might be writing children's books?

He actually laughed at that.

You are not writing children's books.

Now he was starting to scare me a little. Do I just look like a naturally embittered and angry person who can't stand children? Actually...I probably do.

He told me he sees the answer to my question being surrounded by a pink aura, which is a good thing. It gives him a warm and fuzzy feeling.

I felt instantly relieved, because I knew right then this guy was full of shit. I could be wearing a Snuggie, cradling a kitten and holding a cup of hot cocoa and I still wouldn't inspire warm and fuzzy.

Good for him though - he really did have me going for a little while.

So very special.

I have a number of incapacitating fears, which influence my daily behaviour. "Lake monsters" and "the Blair Witch" may seem to be fears with no basis in reality, but I'd rather not take chances.

There's no downside to staying out of dark, creepy looking lakes and I've never really liked camping, so avoiding these two issues doesn't cause problems in my daily life.


Then there are the things I fear the most, for three reasons: they're founded, they keep happening and when they do they fuck me up.


I've been fucked up since Friday and my last conversation with Alex, and I believe "fucked" to be the technical term so I'm just going to keep using it.


First he told me he had a girlfriend, which was bad. But then he didn't tell me good-bye which is actually worse. He told me he wants to keep talking to me, to stay in touch, to keep hearing from me and to see me.

When I'm in Kelowna he wants me to call him, he wants to see me, he wants to spend the night with me and he wants me to attack him just like I always would. But it would be my choice of course.

For not the first time I was so happy I wasn't on the phone, because I was stunned. When texting you can take a minute, but if he was hearing my voice he would have known that I had lost all capacity for speech and so I was saying nothing.

I cried instead. While texting, it looks like I might just be too busy doing something fabulous to respond right away, and I'm totally not having a meltdown at all.

There was no thinking clearly because all I could think of was the word GIRLFRIEND in blinking neon. I asked him if this all meant he didn't want to talk to me anymore and he asked me if I didn't just see everything he wrote.

What I meant was if I go to Kelowna to visit it's a special occasion. Just keeping in touch and talking the way we do isn't. He typed out everything he said over again and added the words, always. Always.

Then I got it. Me of all people, how could I not see it? I'm already complicating my life unnecessarily with a married guy and his open relationship with his wife - Alex is in an open relationship.

Obviously his girlfriend has met him for longer than a minute and has surely recognized that asking him to be monogamous would be like asking him to ovulate so they must have agreed upon an arrangement.

Just to be sure, I asked him if they were open or if my karma would take a hit. The answer was a bit of a surprise. Not open, but my karma would be fine.

"You and I are special. Right?"

I would agree Alex is special. I would agree I should probably be classified as having special needs.

Either way, I told him I agreed.

(His version of how we are special is likely very different from mine. Part of me wants to think he was admitting we have a rather strong connection. The other part of me admits we're special because I'm the easiest girl to cheat with. I'm in his city and then I'm gone again, significantly lessening the chances of getting caught.)

Alex was happy then, because now there were no probs!

I felt like vomiting at that point -- a fair indication there may be probs.

He asked me about my love life which seemed particularly cruel and I told him there wasn't one.

(Not any more. Not as of five minutes ago.)

After I shared a few racy details about my sex life just to somehow demonstrate I'm wanted in some way by somebody, Alex told me again I'm his favorite. It's something we've always said where normal people might say I love you.

You're my favorite, and I miss you and once or twice the occasional I love you. I couldn't not say it back so I told him he my favorite too. Special and my favorite.

I also told him there's better reasons I should be his favorite other than my sex life is unconventional. He replied absolutely - I'm very witty. Not exactly what I was fishing for.

He did seem happy I have a sex life at least, and that reminded him of another good reason we really didn't have to worry.

According to his logic, he and I have never really done it, so there's really nothing to worry about at all. It's like nothing. We can get together with no problems.

Certain that if I looked up "irony" on Wikipedia I would find my driver's license photo and home address alongside a description of how I had been so careful to not be just another girl that Alex has had sex with in hopes that he would view me as somehow better than that, only to have this decision render me so unimportant and inconsequential that a night with me would hardly even count as cheating on his girlfriend, I told him I agreed already.

We've already agreed we're special, and I won't feel bad.

(This is partly true. I won't feel guilty for messing with this girl's boyfriend. Perhaps because her name is Shelley or perhaps because I can't help feeling she's taken something from me and has it coming, but either way she's not my problem. Yes, I may be a bad person.)

(I will however, feel really badly for me.)

Alex agreed that he won't feel bad either - not at all. It's his life and it's what he wants.

I had to stop. I had to go. I had to go puke up prune juice, which is really kind of a blessing. Wasting Weight Watchers points on prune juice is an insult. We agreed we'd talk later and I'm sure he went to bed with his girlfriend and I ran for the bathroom.

This is my problem. Well, I have many. Included in my long list of incapacitating fears is the fear of being dumped in a certain way. Nobody likes rejection, but any time I've had a relationship end it's been the same way.

It's so devastating I pray that one day a guy will break up with me because he's gay, or because he's suddenly Mormon or because I'm afraid of lake monsters and hate camping but that's never what happens.

I've had three boyfriends in my life. That's not a very high number, but occasionally when asked how many sexual partners I've had I like to roll that number out. A girlfriend of mine only counts men she's had sex with more than once and doesn't include the married ones. I believe this to be a fine system.

These ex-boyfriends all have something in common though, and it's how and why they ended things despite slightly different circumstances. I'm thinking this is why I've crossed over from being naturally sad over Alex to completely losing my shit. And prune juice.

Boyfriend #1 upon being asked why he brought the girl he was cheating on me with home to meet his mother when I had never met his mother. And yes, I really want to know.

Well you see Bambi...there's two different types of girls in the world. The kind you bring home to meet your Mom and the kind you fuck. You're the second type.

Boyfriend #2 upon being asked whether we might continue a dating relationship of some kind when he's moved to a new city after accepting a job offer, three days prior to the move.

Are you kidding? Wow. Umm...it's just that you're not really worth changing my life over, you know? I kind of thought you knew you're just temporary.

Boyfriend #3...well actually I left him. His last words to me in person were expressing surprise that I actually dared to leave him. He never thought I would. To be fair, I didn't leave him so much as flee the province he lived in. The only speeding ticket I've ever received I got driving away from the home we shared. Totally worth every penny.

I considered including the Bomb Tech in this list but he didn't actually come out and say anything. He just cried on my shoulder, talked to me constantly, took me on dates so far out of town the areas are designated on a map by the words "here there be monsters," told me I needed to have patience for nine months and then found himself a real girlfriend. I may want to list him as #3.5.

I can not shake the feeling that my role will always be as the other woman. That I will always be the girl on the side, not the girlfriend and never the wife. No matter what I do, I will always rate second-best.

It's to the point now where I just invite it some times. Why not play to my strengths? I'm currently play-mate and nothing more to an incredibly hot firefighter. I may as well milk that for whatever it's worth, because I won't get any better.

On the other hand, Alex was always different. Special. If given a choice between having sex so good with the firefighter that it actually leads to world peace, or sitting in silence watching paint dry with Alex...I'd be staring at a wall for a couple of hours. World peace be damned.

My fear is that I'm missing something. It's invisible to the naked eye but guys can see it, or smell it or hear it the way only canines can hear a dog whistle.

Whatever it is I'm missing means every guy I have a relationship with is going to come to the same conclusion and I can't change this fact.

Even Alex. And he did.

Part of me is trying to feel flattered. He wants to hang on to me because he cares about me. He wants to keep me in his life because we do have a connection, he does want to be with me but I'm really geographically inconvenient.

I don't live where he does, and while it seems a short distance to me I may as well be in Timbuktu for all the good it does him. He would want me to be the girlfriend, he just doesn't see it as possible.

The other part of me knows it's the same as always. No matter how close, no matter how connected, no matter how much in common I'm not good enough for the main stage. On the side is OK, but I'm never going to meet his mother.

And now I'm a little messy. Embarrassingly messy. That conversation was like an earthquake. Not a small, "Did you feel that?" kind of an earthquake but the kind that permanently rearranges topographical maps going forward.

It's fitting I'm on an island because the aftershocks are monster waves of salt water.

I was standing in line at Tim Horton's the day after, and the couple behind me started talking about how it won't be long until the stores have their Christmas displays up. That's all it took.

Christmas. He's going to be spending Christmas with her. He'll spend Christmas with his girlfriend. She'll be with him for Christmas.

By the time the girl at the counter told me I'd have to wait three minutes for my tea the tears were flowing. There was no hiding it, there was no stopping it...I was full on messy.

I'm sure she's never seen anybody seemingly so shaken and upset at the prospect of waiting three minutes for tea. On the plus side, she didn't make me pay.

It keeps happening. Out of nowhere, a random realization about Alex and his girlfriend takes me out at the knees. I'm trying to preempt them either by pretending we never had that conversation, or mentally preparing myself for every possibility.

I still have Kwanzaa, Hanukkah and Chinese New Year to get through and then it's...oh holy crap. Then Valentine's Day. Valentine's Day!

So far I've broken down over the thought of weekends, vacations together and the fact he's changed his Facebook status. I have a seemingly endless imagination, so relief is a long ways away.

It's noticeable. Both eyes look infected. I've told everybody it's my allergies again and now I've actually broken out in hives on top of the swelling. I may just tell people I scrubbed my mascara off with an africanized killer bee hive and just be done with it.

His new relationship is plenty enough to mourn, and it's a prospect I've feared all along. I knew I'd be heart broken and I wasn't wrong. What I should have been even more fearful of is my new role within his new relationship.

Suddenly camping doesn't seem so scary.

Nothing good follows prune juice.

I have a feeling this is going to be a long post, so if you need to pee, make a sandwich or check your email - I would do so now. Take your time, because some activities don't lend themselves to multi-tasking. Even though this was going to be a long posting to begin with, it was turning into War and Peace only without the redeeming literary merit. I've split it up, largely because I don't have enough readers to piss off in that way. Check back later...

Love,

Bambi

It's Friday night and I'm at home, wearing a fuzzy bathrobe, drinking prune juice and writing a grocery list. I am a rock star. Prune juice by the way is an offense to humanity. Constipation is bad enough, but prune juice is mother nature's special way of saying she hates you.

Despite enjoying a Friday night that clearly signals I'm one step away from hoarding cats, I'm in a really good mood. Downright...optimistic? Optimism is such a rare vibe for me that I barely know how to use it in a sentence. I would even go so far as to say feeling happy, which should have been a warning sign.

The last few weeks had been rather concerning. I'm really only motivated when I'm angry, and various circumstances had me eight different kinds of pissed. I needed more money, more freedom, more accomplishments and more shoes. Don't think that list is in actual order of priority either.

Suddenly galvanized I'd applied for as many part-time jobs I could find that would remotely fit around my work schedule, and started going after freelance writing contracts regardless of whether I met the requirements.

(More than 90% of the time I did not meet the requirements. Most anybody looking for a writer nowadays wants to see an online portfolio - or any kind of portfolio. It's not really like I could direct people to this blog, because editors are looking to hire writers and not mental patients.)

(It's frustrating, because it's not like I've never written anything professional before. At one time I had a portfolio, but it went up in flames. Literally. When fleeing my rather abusive ex I had to pack so he didn't notice I was packing, as he always said I was too stupid to leave and if I did I'd be living in a cardboard box and no other man will ever want me. God knows for once I didn't want him thinking otherwise. I took my clothes, left everything else but forgot my goddamned portfolio. He burned it in the backyard fire pit. Postage is expensive.)

Suddenly deciding to add extra work hours to my week and risking rejection by any number of editors seemed like efforts that could be short-lived. If I'm suddenly not angry at the universe, I might wake up one day and wonder what in the hell I'm doing. This was concerning.

Perhaps even more concerning were the complicated feelings I'd been having since realizing Alex may have a woman in his life. Not many women. One woman. I would think about the possibility and within the space of 30 seconds feel so sad, so scared it could be true and that it is exactly what I think it is.

Then completely at odds with all of this I'd feel that the most important thing is if he's happy. I just want him to be happy.

I know, right?

What in the fuck was that about? I could think of only two possibilities why I would whiplash from grief over losing something I hadn't confirmed I'd lost yet, and something I had no idea I ever had to begin with, to feelings that demonstrated...maturity.

It was either a dawning realization that my love and affection for him was so absolute I'd sooner let him go than see him hurt. Or I had a brain tumor.

A brain tumor was not entirely outside the realm of possibility. I know that a brain tumor could cause changes in personality or mood, and can often affect balance and the ability to walk.

I had tripped getting out of the car the other day and at the time I attributed this to my shoe falling off but perhaps I was wrong. How I could possibly want Alex to be so happy knowing I would be so miserable if it wasn't a tumour the size of a watermelon?

Either option was going to be trouble, so when Alex tried to reach me on MSN the first time last week I was only mildly pleased. It was unfortunate I wasn't around to answer, but I wasn't too disappointed.

Any communication we'd had in the last few weeks had been weird and disconcerting for me anyway, so it was nice to have heard from him but a bit of a relief to not have to deal with how he'd been acting recently.

It's been three years since we've met, so we're way past the point of formalities. All of his recent communications however had sounded like he was being held at gunpoint by Miss Manners and forced to type under duress.

For example, I sent him a text message to wish him a happy birthday. I insulted his advanced age as I'm wont to do and included an inside joke we've shared for quite a while.

A day later I got back this: Thank you very much for the birthday wishes. Hope you're well and have a great day!

See?

Exchanging messages with him had been a little like fishing for compliments from an automated phone directory so I was happy he had said hello, but not fully trusting he was back to normal.

Then I missed him again. The second time in as many days he's tried to reach me, which was twice more than I'd heard from him all summer. I got the feeling he wasn't just momentarily at the computer and bored, but that he was actually trying to get a hold of me.

Then I did a happy dance.

Maybe I had been wrong, and this Shelley person he'd said he was so lucky to have in his life was simply a friend and I had over-reacted. I am the same person who attributed a very grown-up sense of caring for another person to a brain tumor so it's not as if there isn't precedent.

It may just be that I have an unfortunate sensitivity ever since grade one when a class-mate named Shelley told everybody I was peeking at her in the bathroom just because my head stuck over the top. I was not peaking at her, but I was at least a foot taller than the bathroom stall dividers at my elementary school and I've hated Shelleys ever since.

Perhaps there had been something going on but the shenanigans were now over and I wouldn't have to dwell on it for another minute.

The same day I'd heard back from a website willing to let me try out for a contract writer position, and I knew I could nail the articles I'd been assigned.

This is how I'm happy drinking prune juice on a Friday night. When out of the blue I get a text message from Alex I'm quite near exultant.

He's apparently escaped out from under Miss Manners because the first message he sends me is a question.

"Why can't you be here?"

Thank. God. He's back!

I ask him why he can't be here, and then I tell him he should be careful what he wishes for.

"Really?? Tell me. Tell me. When??"

I told him I'll be out there in February for work, so he's to book the month off.

"Done."

Then I told him I may be moving into his basement if I don't find a better job out here so make sure there's closet space.

"Done. Holy crap that would be amazing - the good times to be had."

I told him I may have to move to the next town over because neither of us would get any work done and then I started teasing him about...something. I can't even remember what I started texting because...

"I seem to have a girlfriend. I hope you're not mad."

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

I don't really know why it hit me so hard. All of a sudden my head and my body were in two very different climates. Everything below my neck - numbing cold. Everything above - in flames.

I'm thinking it was seeing that word, in literal black and white. Girlfriend. Girlfriend. Not friend. Not FWB. Not some girl I'm kind of seeing. Girlfriend.

When I met him it had been seven years since he'd had a girlfriend, and now it was three years after that. His last relationship lasted six years, and that ex is his room-mate. When he commits to somebody it's real. This girl must be amazing. Or a succubus.

It's been a very long time since any body's called me his girlfriend, but that's because nobody wants to date me. Alex is different.

Every girl he's slept with wants to date him...except for maybe his teacher. And his step-mother's sister.

(To his credit he does kind of regret that one because holiday dinners at his father's house are now just awkward. When he told me how that had come about I said I would pay admission to be there the next time his family carved a turkey. He said I'd get the show for free, because he'd just want to have me there.)

Girlfriend. I had thought...I was sure...I was wrong. Girlfriend.

Now I felt like a complete ass which might explain why my face was spontaneously combusting. How could he let me say all that stuff about going to visit? How could he start off so flirty...so normal??

And what did he mean by asking me if I'm mad? That means he thinks I could have reason to be. Which means that if I had reason to be mad, I had reason to think there was something really there.

Every one of my friends acts like they're humouring me if I talk about him, like I'm goddamned Big Bird going on about Mr. Snuffleupagus again but what if I was never crazy? What if there was really something there and now there's...a girlfriend.

I told him I couldn't be mad if he was happy - surprisingly true. Then I said I had to admit to being a little jealous.

(And by "little" read: if Shelley has a bunny she best be placing that critter into the Witness Protection program because I really need to boil something.)

(That's not true. I could never harm something furry, but if she has a goldfish or a lizard or something it should watch its back.)

Alex said he didn't want me to be jealous because that's bad. I told him it is what it is, but if she messes with him I will come over there. Also true.

Then I waited.

I knew what was coming, and I braced for it. I didn't know whether he would start with the how he just wants me to be happy too because I'm such a great girl approach or whether he would be less subtle and just tell me that even though it's been fun, we probably can't talk any more.

Then he did neither.

And now I am having the worst time trying to get over what he did do.

How long do I go before I get a prize?

Weeks ago, I vowed I will not date anybody until I reach my goal weight. With absolutely no effort at all on my part, I'm proud to say I can keep a promise.

Granted, it's a little like being shipwrecked on a deserted island and patting myself on the back for the fortitude to abstain from Facebook, but I'll accept my victories however I can.

Not dating is probably the easiest project I have ever undertaken, and that includes the time I determined oatmeal cookie dough can substitute as a breakfast food by way of rigorous scientific testing.

If my condo building were to catch fire for real, I would naturally still fix myself up a little before pointing to which man in uniform I'd like to carry me off of my balcony, as one does. I'm refusing to date -- I haven't lost my mind.

Saying I'm refusing to date is misleading though. If I were to apply the same criteria to other aspects of my life, I'm also refusing a raise, a promotion, five fabulous new job offers, free gas, a million dollars and the opportunity to bitch-slap three people of my choosing without fear of punishment.

Not dealing with rejection or developing contingency plans for when my date inevitably turns out to be a woman/serial killer/serial killing woman/mollusk/serial killing mollusk or a Flames fan is actually kind of refreshing.

This situation is making me no less neurotic or anxious, but instead it's allowing me to focus more freely on other ongoing issues. Diversified neuroses are really the way to go, because now I can share and commiserate with people on so many different levels.

Just yesterday a colleague and I talked for more than an hour about the best ways to relieve constipation. As it turns out, she's on the same medication I am and has also lost the ability to go number two.

Unfortunately, I may not be evolving like I had hoped in order to provide the human species with slightly more spare time and less need of scented candles in the bathroom. It would seem this is definitely not a product of evolution and could actually become a serious health problem.

Before talking with her, I had done some research and spoken with a few close friends. It's always nice to have encouragement, and I feel supported when people call me just to find out if I've gone yet.

The consensus seems to be prune juice, milk of magnesia, following little old ladies around drug stores to see what they're buying, and for the love of god, staying away from anal sex.

All sage advice.

Prior to my work colleague separating from her husband and me vowing not to date anybody we might have used that hour to talk about guys and how stupid they are. Now we have deep conversations about how if it's not coming out, then where can it possibly be going?

While the topic may be less exciting than men, it's certainly no less mysterious.