The Ruination of a Good Song

by Verdi E. Mathis

I love the song This Will Be by Natalie Cole.  It’s got a fun snappy beat and words I can relate to.  I have it downloaded on my iPOD, and it’s the opening song to one of my favorite movies: While You Were Sleeping.  I cringe a little when I hear it now.  Only because it reminds me of him.

HIM.  Ugh.  The him I am referring to is Harold, my ex.  We met online at eHarmony.  My husband of almost fifteen years passed away unexpectedly, leaving me devastated and alone, to raise three boys into men.  I didn’t know how to raise a boy to be a man.  But I digress.  Getting back to Harold—when I met him, I was in the process of canceling my eHarmony account.  Their claim to fame is matching people based on twenty-nine key dimensions of compatibility.  At the time, I was already on three other dating sites when I saw their ad on T.V., so I figured, what’s one more?

I logged into their website, completed the in-depth questionnaire and joined.  After two weeks of waiting, they matched me to a man named Keith.  We were very compatible; except he wanted a gorgeous, skinny, no-brained model type.  So not me.  After we made it to the open communication phase of our “online dating” I told him as much.  I also told him he could close communication if he so chose.  He did.  Jerk number one.

Jerk number two came about a week after Keith had closed communication.  I really can’t say whether or not he was a jerk, because I didn’t give him a chance to prove it.  When I received the introductory email and saw his name—Keith—I closed communication right away.  After all, Keith number one had rejected me; Keith number two didn’t stand a chance.  

I read Harold’s profile three times before deciding to open communication with him.  We started communication on a Monday and by Friday we were talking on the phone.  Our lives paralleled each other’s in so many ways.   He was a forty-one year old, divorced father of two; a boy ten and a girl twelve.  I was a forty year old widowed mother of three boys; five, ten and fourteen.  His mother passed away in February of 2000, mine passed away in April of 2000; and our birthdays were four days apart.   

We talked on the phone for almost two weeks before finally meeting face-to-face over the MLK holiday.  He’d just gotten back from attending a funeral in South Carolina.  He called me up and asked me to meet him at Starbucks.

We sat in that coffee house for almost an hour, gazing into each other’s eyes, smiling and talking.  The next day, I had a lovely email in my inbox telling me how wonderful our meeting had been.  Practically everyday he sent me an e-card to say hello or I’m thinking of you.  The gesture made my heart smile.  I found myself falling in like.

It had been a while since I’d had that kind of attention paid to me, and it felt good.  I sped downhill on a rollercoaster going full speed.  My mind kept telling me to slow down, take it slow, it’s going too fast, but my heart said I’d prayed for it so accept it and go with the flow.  So I did. 

We had been on two dates before he asked for a kiss.  I could tell on our other dates he wanted to kiss me, but he didn’t make a move.  As all first kisses should be, this one was perfect.  He leaned in, brushed his lips across mine and lingered there before pulling me into his arms and plastering me with a good wet one!

Our children got along great with one another.  His daughter became the little girl I’d always dreamed of having.  And they lived happily ever after right?  Wrong.  As all great romances go, there’s always a stumbling block.  Mine was named Belinda.  She turned out to be his “one that got away.”  They ran into each other in South Carolina while he attended his uncle’s funeral.  She had broken up with her current flame and re-emerged in Harold’s life, causing utter confusion on his part and complete chaos in my life by running home to Mommy in DC.

He was confused.  He told me I was everything he wanted in a woman.  The type of woman he could settle down with and raise a family.  Now, I’ve heard there are two types of women; the ones men want to take home to meet Mama, and the ones they want to screw up against a wall.  I think Belinda fell into the latter category.  And yes, he did.  How do I know this?  He told me.  After he admitted to being conflicted and torn, he confessed that he’d slept with her.  It took me two weeks and three dates before I got a kiss from this man, but he sleeps with her the first weekend she’s in town?

I know this sounds hard to believe, but I didn’t get upset about it.  Well, I did, but I had no claims on him.  We were slowly getting to know each other.  I’m all about a person being happy and if I wasn’t the one to make him happy, I didn’t want to be a part of his life.  Plain and simple.  I told him he needed to think about what he wanted.  I gave him his space.  Didn’t call him.  Didn’t email him.  Didn’t text message him.  Nothing.  After a week of not hearing from me, he blew up my text messaging. 

“You can’t call to see how a guy is doing?” his first message read.

I responded.  “Hi.”

Several messages later he said, “I’ve been thinking about you all week.”

Finally he called.  “I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“How are things going with you and Belinda?”  I’m a woman.  I had to get that dig in there.

“Fine.  She’s staying at my place until her apartment is ready.”

To make a long story short, I dropped him from my memory.  I threw myself into redecorating my house.  I’d bought it three months before I met him, and hadn’t done much to it other than have the kitchen re-done, so I bought paint and plaster and wall paper and planned on having a decorating party.

Imagine my surprise five months later when I got a phone call from him. 

“Happy fourth of July!” he said.  “Do people usually wish a happy fourth?”

“I don’t know.  How have you been?”

We shot the breeze for a few minutes and hung up.  A few days later, his daughter called me to see how I was doing.  I received periodic phone calls and emails for a few months until one day he showed up at my front door.  He was “in the area” doing a job and dropped by to say hi.  He noticed how tall my grass had grown and offered to mow it.  I hadn’t invested in a lawn mower yet, so I accepted the offer.  I was particularly depressed on this day because I’d just been rejected for a job I’d had my heart on.  They all but offered me the job then at the last minute decided to go with someone else.  My spirits were low and I had planned on getting drunk.  I had my Jose Cuervo Tequila, some rum to add into the mix, a freezer full of ice and a brand new blender.  

While he mowed the lawn, I mixed the margaritas.  I offered him a drink to pay for his services.  He told me his short bed hop with Belinda had fizzled out and he’d moved on to another woman he’d met at a bar he frequented.  They were in the early stages of getting to know each other.  He said he’d told her about me.  Why tell someone you’ve just met about a relationship that barely made it past first base? 

The reason I mention the other other woman is because she called him while we were getting pissy drunk.  He let the call go to voicemail at least four times before my drunken self told him to answer it.  Why would he take advice from someone who couldn’t hold up her own head?  The way I figured it, we were two old friends having a few drinks together.  If he had been at the club with his “boys” he would have taken the call, so why not with me?  She asked where he was and he told her.  She hung up on him.  I guess she didn’t see it from my perspective. 

Drunken me offered to talk to her on his behalf and explain there was nothing going on between us, so he called her back.  Again I ask; why would he take advice from someone who could barely sit up straight?  He called her back and said I wanted to talk to her.  Not a smart move on his part.  After she yelled a few unflattering names at him and hung up for the second time, he said it was for the best.  He told me he’d made a mistake.  He never should have left me in the first place.  He’d been a fool to let me go.  Blah-blah-blah.  Slap sucker on my forehead and call it a day.  I’m too forgiving.  I hold a grudge about as long as it takes to pee.  By the time we polished off the two bottles our relationship had progressed to a level it hadn’t reached before.  

We were together for almost six months before I realized—okay, I already knew it, but he fully proved to me—how big a jerk he could be.  Our birthdays were approaching.  He wanted stuffed shrimp and flounder as his birthday dinner and I made him a carrot cake with cream cheese icing.  I got him some balloons, bought him the video Along Came Polly (our first date movie) and bought him a combination VCR-DVD player to watch it on.  The night before his birthday, he and his children came over.  I remember I had a headache and went to lie down after I’d finished dinner.  While I rested, he left.  He called me the next day—his birthday—and said he hooked up with a cousin and they hung out all night.              

Birthdays are a big thing in my house.  The guest of honor gets to pick what they want for dinner, even if it’s at a restaurant, gets a birthday cake of their choice, and gets a balloon bouquet.  It’s tradition.  I had done all this for him.  He called a couple of times saying he was still with his cousin.  I told him we were preparing to eat his stuffed shrimp.  He never showed up. 

I awaited my birthday wondering what I had in store.  I’m not mercenary or anything, but he’d gotten me a DVD player for Christmas, sent a teddy bear to my job, and gotten me a beautiful gold bracelet for Valentine’s Day, so I looked forward my birthday.  I didn’t even get a phone call.   

The day after my birthday, around nine-thirty that night, I got a text message asking, “How was your birthday?”  Needless to say, I didn’t respond.  Maybe I do harbor a little grudge against him, but I’m generally very forgiving.  Whenever I tell people I don’t hold a grudge, my best friend always says “Harold.”  I usually don’t have a comeback for her. 

Since I profess I don’t carry grudges, let me say now, Harold, I forgive you for being a jerk.  Thank you for opening my heart to the possibility I may someday find love again.  Oh, and thanks for the VCR-DVD player in my bedroom.  I use it almost every night to watch RENT. 

- the end -

Verdi E. Mathis is a Human Resources Specialist with the Federal Government.  She is a widow and the mother of three young men and resides in Maryland, but has her eyes on New York City.  Verdi can be contacted through her MySpace page at www.myspace.com/Plain_Toast, or by email.