How to Grow Up (13 page)

“It's not a blood diamond, is it?” I asked nervously between tears. Dashiell said that she had asked the salesperson and the salesperson had said no and then her friend who had gone with her for moral support had said, “Don't ask again.”

I never thought I would give a crap about a diamond. I'm actually certain that I've gone on tears about why people make such a big deal about them, when lots of rocks—take, for example, amethyst, my birthstone—are cool and beautiful and have mystic-crystal properties. But once I had it on my finger I was like,
Holy shit. It's pretty. It sparkles.
And the experience of being proposed to with a ring is sort of a famous experience. I'd seen it happen to people on TV and in movies my whole life, and now it was happening to me. There was something surreal about that, about my weird life suddenly syncing up with the lives of countless normal people everywhere, that I couldn't help but love. In wanting marriage I wanted to find someone I could pledge myself to who could pledge herself back to me, and I found that with Dashiell. But I hadn't expected to be given so grand a token, and it knocked the breath right out of me. It was like that whole otherworldly moment of love and surprise and fantasy and reality all became crystallized in that sparkling mineral, and I think about it all the time—when I'm holding out my hand and gazing at it, overcome with love and gratitude and looking like a crazy lady from some 1950s poster of womanhood.

The years I'd spent trudging through my love swamp of Internet Girlfriends, Fake Johnny Depps, and depressive Cruise
Dudes had taught me every stupid lesson I needed to learn in order to get my romantic shit together. Without those ridiculous relationships, I wouldn't have formulated my rules. And without my rules and the work they forced me to do, I don't think I would have even
noticed
Dashiell. A happy businessperson? How would I have spotted her through the throngs of miserable ne'er-do-wells I was swooning over? And Dashiell wouldn't have fallen for me, either, that spazzed-out, love-drugged, hypomanic chemical mess. Doing things differently brought out a different side of myself, made me a whole different person. And the only person who loves her more than Dashiell does is me.

How to Break Up

O
kay, I've broken down the details of the trifling fools I've dated, and maybe you're like,
Ohmigod I am
so
dating someone just like that right now! How do I break up with them? And what do I do when I'm all broken up?
Well, you go to Paris. But first let's dump these chumps!

I've always found relationships very hard to get out of. Not everyone is like this. Some people are wild heartbreakers, terrified of commitment, quick to bolt the minute you up the intimacy level by, say, making them breakfast in bed. This just happened to a dear friend of mine. The dude broke it off while they were naked and cuddling, haunted by the grocery bags in the kitchen filled with bacon and eggs and fruit and coffee. Being loved that sweetly was too much for him. You do not want to date a person so threatened by love he can't even allow you to scramble him some eggs, so sometimes getting dumped is a blessing. You want to find someone you can dote on and make crush
crafts for and bake late-night brownies for and whatnot. Because
this
is what makes love fun. And you want to make sure your love is fun.

Some will challenge this. There is a loudmouthed demographic who believe that love is
hard
, that it's lots of fighting and struggle. There is no arguing with them, because for these people love
is
lots of fighting and struggle. Fortunately, you're not obligated to date these people. I have always known in my heart that a relationship could be smooth and happy, even though almost every single experience up to dating Dashiell seemed to prove me wrong. I don't know why I let myself hold on to this elusive ideal, but thankfully I did, and now I've finally got myself a fun relationship with a person who squeals at her good fortune when I do sweet things for her, who does sweet things for me in turn. It is true that she is not the norm. But she exists, so others like her must exist, and they are worth holding out for. At the center of such a pledge is self-love: You are worth holding out for a happy relationship. You don't have to take a lot of bullshit, or walk on eggshells, or wait for things to get better. You can break up. Let's get started!

One thing I learned from my many failed relationships is that you always sort of
know
when it's over. That doesn't mean you'll end it right away. It's a little like drinking—you might have a sinking suspicion you're an alcoholic, but that doesn't mean you're going to put down the cocktail. You're going to have to hit a couple of bottoms—peeing yourself, maybe, or getting fired for calling in with a hangover one too many times—before you make a change. If your relationship MO is anything like mine, you're
likely to stretch the bad times out as long as possible, hoping that something will suddenly change, even hoping that maybe the suckiness is all your fault—you're not
getting it
properly—and if you just hold out you'll have some sort of revelation and finally understand why your date is such a douche and you'll be
okay
with it, and y'all can love happily ever after.

So, feel free to hang out awhile in that holding pattern, treading dirty water, or cut it off now, get your grieving going, and get over it all that much faster! If you're unsure if your relationship is at the point where you need to murder it, here is a little checklist:

Your date can't say for sure that they actually want to be with you.
They're, like, confused or something. Maybe they want to be
free
, man! They want to try dating skanks and getting STDs for a while. Or—maybe not. Maybe you are the best thing they will ever know, and they should stay with you forever. They're just not sure.

Fire this punk. They don't
know
whether they want to be with the best, funniest, most interesting, and hottest person in the galaxy? (That would be you.) You
do not
have the time to hang out and wait for them to come to their senses. To wait around for such a thing is a massive drag on your self-esteem. Doubt like this slashes right into your heart, and all your self-love starts leaking away. The only thing to stop this drain of your very own life force is to tell this sucker to take his cat and leave.

As far as I'm concerned, there are only two answers to the question “Do you want to be with me?” One is yes; one is no. “I don't know” gets filed under no. I want someone who not only
knows they want to be with me, but knows they are freaking
lucky
to be with someone as totally awesome as I am, and I want you to want that, too. I wasn't born with this confidence—no way. I assumed it (faking it till you make it really works!), and then I fortified it by breaking up with people who were bringing me down.

Before you write me off as some crazy diva who is hanging out on a chaise longue powdering my face with a big fluffy puff and tossing bon mots like, “You are so
lucky
to get to be with me!” let me say that I should be feeling incredibly lucky to be with whomever I'm dating, too. It should be mutual. That's the point. And if it's not, cut and run and find someone you
can
have a Mutual Admiration Society with. Because if your date doesn't know if they want to be with you, it is very likely coward code for
I don't know how to break up with you
. Don't hang around waiting to be broken up with. There is nothing more humiliating.

Your date is all hung up on another person.
Gross! Dump that chump! This has happened to me on a few different occasions, and it never turned out well. Once I was a rebound for someone who stated very clearly that he was on a rebound and that he had very little to offer me. This was
great
communication on his part. I should have ended it right there. You, reader, should end it right there. I got all tangled up in this person's mixed signals for a month or so, before storming out of his apartment on Valentine's Day after he couldn't stop sadly talking about how much his cats missed his ex. Another date would get so upset by the proximity of a recent lover that full-blown panic attacks would ensue, which she would soothe with red wine and pills that would then
sicken her, triggering a brand-new panic attack about her health, as she was a hypochondriac to boot. It was a terrible cycle that I couldn't do anything to help. Know why?
It had nothing to do with me.
If you're looking to create a deep and meaningful bond with someone, and they are so obsessed with their ex that they become nonfunctional in that ex's presence, it's time to break up. It's fair to expect a date's enthusiasm and infatuation for you to outweigh whatever grief they might still have over those in their past. If they don't, then you shouldn't be dating them, and maybe they shouldn't be dating at all.

You've opened up your relationship.
Just break up. Unless you are a free-spirited Polyamorous Polly at heart and you've always wanted to live in a nonmonogamous manner, flinging the bedroom doors open on your LTR is just procrastinating its demise, and guaranteeing that it will be much more painful and dramatic. If you're at the point where you're willing to endanger the relationship by sleeping with other people, just end it. I don't know of a single couple this plan has worked out for in the long run. When I tried it there was a month or so when I was blown away by the new amour possibilities available to me and was giddy, nearly high, with it all. It was a strangely sweet pleasure to share this with my LTR, but the novelty wore off as reality and its attendant feelings set in. Because it ultimately sucks to watch your person get all head-over-heels over someone who grosses you out a little. How can you make out with him knowing he just made out with
her
? Yuck. Plus, I found it a creepy, lonely feeling to be handed so much freedom. I'd like to be held a little closer; would like for the thought of me frolicking elsewhere to inspire at least a
little
jealousy. Or, even better, a lot of
jealousy. Do what you should have done a month ago and end that shit.

You fight all the time.
Your life is better than this. Fighting all the time is bad for your health, raising stress hormones that make you crave Doritos and leave you vulnerable to heart attacks. Listen—there is never any reason to fight. Any conflict can be worked out by just, like, talking. Talking sweetly, even. Being on one another's teams. Constant fighting results in you seeing your partner, on some level, as your enemy. Don't be sleeping with the enemy. Go find someone who is nicer, and sleep with that person instead. And if you're the one starting fights all the time, go to therapy. You don't have to live like that.

You're not actually dating.
You're intriguing—a flirting that feels like it's building toward something. You're sexting. Maybe the person lives on the other side of the country. Maybe they have a partner so they can't go all the way with you; they can only engage you on the dopamine level and fuck with your mind all day by sending you naked photos or something. Maybe they have commitment issues, or maybe are working the long con and in a couple of weeks you'll find yourself buying them an iPhone or something. Even though you're not actually dating, this person is taking all your emotional and mental energy. You keep waiting for something to happen. Guess what? Nothing is going to happen. How long has it been? Count the days. If something was going to happen, don't you think it would have happened by now? You are being played. Cut off all contact with this person, and get mourning. Your friends might not understand what you're going through—after all, it's true you weren't dating. But this
player engaged your heart, your hopes, your dopamine. The crash you are feeling is legit. Cry into your pillow and then get back into the real world.

You're walking on eggshells.
You're dating someone with intense negative sensitivities. Saying the wrong word sets her off. So does mentioning a person she doesn't like (and she doesn't like most people). Listening to a song she detests makes her spittle in disgust. You've become scared to profess enjoyment of anything because you don't want to be told that you're wrong, that your taste is bad. You hold much of yourself in, trying to talk only about the things she likes. Which means there is not that much to talk about, because you're dating a hater. You become obsessed with doing things to make her happy, so that the two of you might enjoy a pleasant moment and you can relax.
Ugh.
Does this sound like a living hell to you, or what? If you find yourself biting your tongue, not being honest or natural because you fear it will set off your date, stop hanging out with her. It's doomed anyway—believe me. At some point, this negative, moody monster will decide that you are just like the rest of humanity—not good enough. You probably already know this is likely—isn't that why you feel so stressed and nervous all the time? Waiting for that other loafer to drop?
You
drop the other loafer, damn it! Chuck it at her head and get the f
out of there
! Happier people await you.

There are endless combinations of bad dynamics that should send you scurrying for the safety of singleness, but what they all have in common is making you feel like crap, not prioritized, unappreciated. If you have done your own emotional homework
and gone to therapy and worked through all the ways your parents ruined you, then you are ready to be present and love another person, to be on their team and make them feel awesome. If your person is not returning the favor, kick them to the curb. Life is too short.

Now, how to break up with this fool? Quickly, and decisively. In person tends to be best, but so much relationship communication is conducted via gadgetry nowadays, I don't think it's the worst sin if your relationship resignation letter comes over the phone or computer. Other people disagree with this, and if you do choose to end the love affair with a text message, be prepared to field some self-righteous outrage. But I believe that a remote breakup often spares both people from those downward-spiraling, endless-processing conversations that so often accompany endings. Those conversations are useless. If you
do
do your breakup in person, try not to indulge them. My easiest kills were ones where I was pulling on my jean jacket and tossing my bag over my shoulder as I delivered the final words. Keep it brief (“It's over.” “I can't do this anymore.” “We're breaking up.” “Fuck you.”) and get the hell out of there. Oh, it's happening in your house? “I need you to leave.” Boom. But remember, breakup text messages are the Dear John letters of yesteryear. As nothing good has
ever
come out of an in-person breakup, I heartily endorse an electronic resignation.

Once the breakup is in effect, don't try to be friends. Maybe that will happen organically later on, but right away it's a pretty lousy idea. One or both of you are bound to be a bundle of raw nerves, lingering desire, seething resentment—emotional suicide
bombers. Passive-aggressive commentary, if not outright scream fighting, is to be expected. Keep your distance. If you have a texting problem, delete your ex's number from your phone. Make a pact with a close friend that you will text or call
them
before you text or call your ex. Texting can be painfully hard to resist—like, your ex has
got
to hear what you have to say, or you think you will feel
so much better
if you just get this one barbed comment off your chest, but really. You won't feel that much better. It will not get you what you think you want, which might not be what you really want, anyway. Don't reach out to your ex—not to hurt them and not to be friends. Get a breakover instead!

Hail the breakover, a breakup-inspired makeover. We have all sorts of falling-in-love rituals, weddings being the most extravagant. But what about coming-apart rituals? I guess getting totally shitfaced is a common contemporary breakup ritual, but I'm thinking of something a bit more positive. That last thing you need when you're feeling rejected is booze bloat and a shame spiral.