A League of Your Own

  

Are you crying? Oh, no wait. That's me.

Dear Whole Foods,

Before today, I considered you a good friend. I enjoyed spending time with you. I sought out your companionship over that of other stores. You taught me new things about my eating habits. Mostly, I just thought you were cool.

One day, I woke up and I realized something as sudden and unstoppable as a sneeze. My epiphany? I had fallen in love. When I had to shop elsewhere, I felt the nausea of guilt and betrayal; walking the aisles of these inferior stores was joyless. I knew there was only one store I ever wanted to shop at again.

Realizing my feelings had grown, I took action. I laid it on the line in an attempt to foster something deeper and more meaningful. I applied for a job so I could be with you every day.

Over the past year I made several attempts to woo you, all the while still being a good friend, never letting your indecisiveness affect my feelings. At first you were coquettish, informing me my sporadic advances were "under review." Occasionally you would deal me a harsh blow, as when I was told I was "not selected" for an interview as a part-time cashier (a cashier!). But I never gave up. I felt if you would just let your guard down and be brave in the face of commitment, I could show you how important you are to me.

When you called me last week, it was one of the happiest days in recent memory. It reminded me of a Hollywood movie in which the love interest realizes the person they’d been looking for has been in front of them all along. I‘d waited patiently, stood by while you made mistakes. Through your errors, you’d learned what devotion really was. At long last, you would take a chance on me. I vowed to seize the opportunity. Together at last!

This morning was our interview (our first date!) and I bore my soul. Perhaps I should not have. A gradual admission of my desires may have served me better. Instead, I confessed to my enduring hopes. I admitted my wish for us to be together. I even used the L-word.

The rendezvous was not without awkwardness, but this is to be expected after so much anticipation. Still, I left with a good feeling. I had been frank and forthright. I had made a strong case for myself. Of course, I was disappointed that you did not embrace me right then and there, opting instead to keep me at arms’ length while you considered the situation, but I honestly felt optimistic about our future together.

Only a short time later, the telephone rang. It was you. You sounded good, happy. However you told me, in a remorseless tone, that you had decided not to continue seeing me. You were interested in someone else that “better suited [your] needs at this time,” whatever that means. You were brief, and to the point, and I give you credit for not leaving me waiting. Still, the knife had been quick to cut. Before I even knew what hit me, it was over. I shed actual tears as I sat there, going over the possibilities of what went wrong.

Had I come on too strong? Perhaps my repeated overtures ground down your perception of my self-worth? Maybe you prefer a hunt, and I was too much of a possum? At any rate, I did know this—the innocence was gone, evaporated. What once was a harmless flirtation between friends, (one of whom suggests they might make a good couple, the other laughs, blushing), became something dangerous and volatile. I do not blame you for your feelings, but the rosy days of our past will remain there.

So what of our friendship now? We didn't discuss it. I suppose you think we can just go back to the way things were, as though none of this mattered. Maybe you can, but it will be some time before I can look at you without anger. Each time I see a new employee that you have willingly chosen, I will know them as my rival.

Faulkner wrote, "Between grief and nothing, I choose grief," for at least in grief there is closure. Knowing I am not worthy of you, I am given a much-needed respite from the ceaseless ache that is wishing. That said, something was crushed today, irreversibly damaged. I know I am complicit in these dealings and their aftermath. After all, it was I who asked for them, and I who did not live up to their expectations. But I hope you will share some of the blame too, for it was you who decided, after so much time, to risk my feelings in this way. Did you not feel hesitation, knowing what was at stake? Was it not obvious that your feelings were disproportionate to mine, and could only result in rejection? My question to you is thus: why now? Could you not have spared me the ugly reality of the truth, allowing me to continue in the near-bliss of our friendship? Perhaps, were it between grief and nothing, I would acquiesce to Faulkner's wisdom. Yet it was not nothing, for I had dreams.

It’s Not You. It’s Me.

I am often struck by the amount of time I spend in front of the 10-foot bathroom mirror at work, pushing my bangs this way and that, and gently roughing up the crown of my hair so that it doesn’t look so flat and unwashed as it actually is.

I might have felt something like guilt about this habit once upon a time, but at the wise old age of almost thirty I have come to the conclusion that many people spend almost their entire workday doing anything but actual work. Just this morning my coworker yelled to me across the gallery as I sat atop a ladder, “I beat the computer at Connect Four!” (This was great news. Prior to this, we were a combined 0-90 against). It just so happened that I was working at the time. Ordinarily that sort of boast would have ignited a marathon of video games, our favorite of which involves a blank world map where you are asked to identify places like Botswana and Timor Laste (To date I have been the only one to score a 100, and only after a good two hours of playing).

The problem of the work ethic in our case is that we are fairly young and energetic, largely unsupervised, and have not nearly enough to do. The other more serious problem is that much of our socializing and entertainment is done via the computer, with which our job has so graciously provided us at our very own desks. The last, and probably most serious problem, is the fact that having a job is a lot like being in a mediocre relationship; it is just easier to stay together than to have to start dating again. If you're just phoning it in, you might not get a promotion, but you're still going to get to keep your desk. You have to really be a screw up to get fired.

For example, I have detected a pattern in myself--in relationships and jobs alike--that denotes a continual slide downward in performance and sex appeal, and still I have never been fired and only occasionally dumped. It is a sad eventuality and I am never surprised when these forays into the professional and romantic end in something approximating mutual disgust:

The first thing you will notice, if you are conducting a job interview or are on a first date with me, is that I will be dressed up and on my best behavior. I will tell you about myself in a positive light, but will be careful not to boast. I will smile a lot, and pretend to be at ease. I will act as though I am excited about our future, and that I have goals for us. You will see that I am a real charmer.

Over the next few weeks, whether you have hired me or have started sleeping over, I will be very attentive and will work hard to impress you. I will continue to shower every day and wear collared shirts. I will be punctual and upbeat, and even if I have been feeling a bit stressed out I will try not to let it show. You will think that you have made a good choice in hiring/fucking me.

Soon, the probationary period or the courting is over, and we will be in a relationship. I will let my guard down a bit, and stop always trying to get you to like me. I will be less positive, and far less outgoing. I will not shower every day, and may even wear the same outfit twice in a row. I will be surly in the mornings, and I will suddenly seem reluctant to bend over backwards like I used to. I will still get all my work done/help you cook dinner, but my temper will be short. I will wear old jeans a lot. You will notice these changes, but you will not bring it up.

After a while I will secretly loathe you. I will spend the time that I am with you dreaming about other jobs or other women. I will fall asleep at my desk or before you come over. I will act depressed when you are around and blame either work or home, whichever you are not. I will resent you and roll my eyes behind your back at almost anything you say. I will pray to get fired or dumped. I will drink a lot, and speak to you very little. You will not remember what you saw in me.

Eventually, it will be time for a work review or a talk about where our relationship is going. I will not have shaved in weeks. I will have nothing nice to say. I will accept none of the blame. I will make unreasonable demands of you. You will feel betrayed.

Finally, I will get a new job or meet a new girl. I will tell you flatly and mercilessly that I am leaving. I will not show any emotion. I will be clean and wearing slacks. How did you not see this coming?

...

Of course, some would say that I managed to break this trend romantically speaking as my 5-year anniversary approaches. Nonetheless, I continue to struggle professionally in much the same ways that I did when I was fresh from school.

Alas, perhaps I should count my blessings. After all, I've never had much interest in work but I've always been interested in women. And what's more important--having a career or having someone who says, "I love you too."?

7 Ways I’ve Told Someone I Loved Them

Mix tapes.

Stared at them and thought it.

Read them my first ever poem that was about them.

In French.

Fucked others, but made love with them.

Too late.

Perfunctorily.