Dating Chronicles (Book One)

Chapter One

Late one evening, on a cold November day in 2007, I found myself hopelessly and irrevocably out of love with a man who I'd convinced myself, ten years before, that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. The exact moment, I shall always remember, happened during dinner. It was a Tuesday night. We'd ordered General Tso chicken, and spring rolls from our favorite Chinese take-out. There, in his small, cluttered living room, I stared at him as he shoved the entire spring roll in his mouth, and I just simply knew I was no longer head over heels in love with him.

For several months, I contemplated where I stood in the relationship and, in what we had created, our life together. I suppose the music group Clash said it best with their song, Should I Stay or Should I Go. I'd been in limbo for so long that I had no idea what my next move was.

Neither of us had been comfortable with our relationship. We had been together since we were sixteen years old, long enough to make the next logical step, cohabitation, but once we had crossed that bridge, the next step seemed to flee from us. In fact, neither of us were comfortable with the idea of matrimony. 

Not really.

I wanted to hold off on marriage until I'd finished my degree in sports rehabilitation, and the man in question, who in these pages I shall call Mark, never liked the idea of marriage. He believed marriage was the cause of failed relationships. However, based on my personal experience on being Mark's girlfriend for the last ten years, I beg to differ. 

Don't get me wrong, I love Mark. I really do. Mark has been my sweetheart, my love since High School. He loves me – for me, a broken, reckless and at times – bitch of a woman, unconditionally. We love each other unreservedly, but at the same time, not enough to make our commitment legal.

Love, to me, had always been this grand thing, like in the movies. But it's never been and shall never be. All those fluffy, rainbow colored, glitter infused, happy endings are best reserved for Disney movies. And all of those stories where girl meets boy, boy loves girl, girl and boy fall in love and live happily ever after, is complete and utter bullshit.

And New York City has the most bullshit per square mile. I should know. I'm a full born and bred New Yorker. And in this concrete jungle there are far more single women in New York City than anywhere else in the entire world. I promise. I'm not making this up.

The census bureau has publicly announced that in Manhattan, the Upper East Side to be specific, women outnumber men two to one. As per this same census bureau, if I want to find a single man to settle down with, I have to find him in Jackson Heights, Queens where there are 1.7 single men for every single female.

Unless said bureau employs people who live in rabbit holes, they must know that the reason there are more single men in Queens than any other place in the city is because these men are not marriage material. The women I know don't go looking for Prince Charming in Queens or the Bronx.

They go to Murray Hill.

These women want to be taken to dinner at a Michelin rated restaurant with well-groomed patrons, and exceptional wine menu, not McDonalds.

So, you see, this most recent census totally bites, because New York is and always be my home. New York and I have history. We've shared laughs, drunken nights down Ninth Avenue, a Bon Jovi concert, a Madonna faze and most of all, we've shared, Mark.

Lazy, boring, and predictable Mark.

At the young age of twenty-six, Mark is already comfortable with his life; never seeking to exert more energy than required and never wanting to achieve more than he already has. We rent a one bedroom subsidized apartment in lower Manhattan that we share with his large and very lazy Rottweiler, Felony, who I am convinced wants to chew my face off. I'd given the dog to Mark as a Christmas present and I have regretted it ever since. The dog sheds immensely and she's grown to such a large size that it's inhumane having her live indoors with us. 

However, Mark would rather cut off his right arm then get rid of her. Loyalty is one of the qualities in him that I gravitated toward when we first met. There is also the ease in our conversations, his unweathering patience and affection toward me, and his relaxed approach in life in general. 

Ironically, the very qualities I loved about him were now what I loathed.

I'd always done right by love; always been a good girl, a hopeless romantic with simple wants and needs. So, instead of running clear across the country when our relationship, once fun and exciting, had become dull and uneventful, I stayed.

That's the way I saw love.

Everlasting.

Forever.

Even at the sacrifice of my own happiness.

The infrangible devotion I have toward love is a sickness, my sickness. It was my sheer determination to keep the relationship afloat that gave me a sense of purpose. I did whatever I could to please him in order to keep the relationship afloat. What I had failed to realize was that the slump we'd been in would finally come to an end, with or without my involvement.

Mark and I had run its course.

For years, we bid our time together, neither one of us having the strength or the courage to let it go. Perhaps it was loyalty that kept us together for so long. Or maybe it was fear. All I know is that this is where you find me, with Mark, lying awake in our bed wondering what I was doing still with him. I find myself making a list in my head of all the different ways I can kill him. And although I look real fabulous in jailhouse orange, I'm quite scrawny and scare easily, so, I'd probably end up being someone's bitch. Which would totally ruin my fantasies regarding lesbian sex. Needless to say, I don't go the murder route.

By now, his chronic snoring is ringing obnoxiously in my ear.  The ice-cold air escaping the air conditioner does little to blanket this horrid sound and instead seems to be competing. He doesn't even flinch when I kick him real hard under the two layers of covers. A low growl ensues from below a pillow, though I might be confusing it with the sounds of the city that bounce off the rooftops and into the small bedroom through an open window; the sound of two car-horns, a faint short-lived siren that comes and goes, school kids in the nearby park.

So, I kick him again.

And again. 

And then, all is quiet.

Lingering in the sweet sound of absolute silence, the alarm that's strategically placed on the bedside table next to Mark's side of the bed engulfs the bedroom with an irritatingly loud horn. Rolling over, I cover my head with the heavy quilt. I haven't slept a wink the entire night and the day has already begun to tease me. Yes, I'm wallowing in self-pity.

Mark jumps out of bed and says quite casually, "I can't do this anymore."

I think I've just imagined this so, I remain quiet. 

"I know you can hear me," Mark says.

Sitting up slowly, I say, "What are you talking about?"

"You deserve better."

"Um, okay," I reply, and retreat under the covers.

I think I hear him crying.

Wait.

Yes.

He is.

He's pacing now. A few seconds later, he rips open a pack of cigarettes and begins to deplete whatever breathable oxygen is left in the room. My crazy boyfriend is going to give me cancer and what do I do? I hide. And then he says, "You deserve someone who can please you sexually." 

And there it is.

The elephant.