Can of Worms

So, anyone who knows me knows that I love me a Can of Worms. The tighter the seal on the can, the better. I love to dig my nails in there and pierce the metal and let the botulism-filled contents ooze through the holes. Although the ooze is poisonous, I like to pretend it’s more like Botox—the type of botulism that is socially acceptable, the kind that freezes time and makes one look as if her feathers could never be ruffled —and inject straight into my heart, into my dreams of what should-have-been.

On a side note, I remember having these amazing male friends during and right after college. These were the type of men I tried so hard to muster up attraction for—tried to ignite those fireworks. But, despite my last post, sometimes that match can never light that fuse. For whatever reason, even though most of them had every lady’s top three-looks, humor, kindness—the connection just wasn’t there. I remember thinking that I should host a “What a Waste” party. This would be a room filled with mingling men and women, brought to the party by someone they know, someone who thought they would be an amazing mate, but just didn’t feel that spark. I’ve heard there are now dating sites devoted to this idea—although, from what I understand, they are exes recommending exes. What has this world come to? They are stronger women than I.

Hmmm…how do these two ideas meld together?, you ask. Botox and a “What a Waste” party? Such a strange mix—unless you live in the heart of the Hollywood acting scene, where every party is automatically filled with exes with frozen-in-time faces.

Here goes some honesty. I’m owning it. Sunday was the Heartbreaker’s (who, by the soothing hands of time, has been demoted to Heartnicker) birthday. I hemmed and hawed about whether or not to send him a—ahem, ahem—harmless Happy Birthday text. Being the lover of worms that I am, I opted, as you’ve probably guessed, on the hawing side—and sent him a text. I simply sent: HAPPY BIRTHDAY. HOPE ALL IS WELL. Simple and safe enough.

I can honestly tell you that I have no idea what I expected out of this. I think I knew that I had learned enough over the past four months to know that he is no longer the type of man that I want for my future. I’m no longer looking for the thirty-seven-going-on-eighteen-raised-truck-driving man. So, when a few minutes later my phone rang and I saw his number on the screen, my heart did do a little flip but my hands didn’t quickly reach for it. Instead, they moved to cradle my forehead. And I actually thought to myself, Oh no…What have I done? Oh, that’s another thing about me—I love to open the Can of Worms, but I never know what to do with the worms once they’re wriggling around in the daily ins-and-outs of my life. They squiggle around in my belly, arousing nausea.

On the last note of the song that plays for my ringer, I grabbed the phone and said—very casually, of course—“Hey.”

“Wassup?” He asked. I immediately rolled my eyes at Higgins. Some things never change.

“Not much. Happy birthday,” I sighed.

What ensued was an unemotional, five-minute conversation—sharing details of the past four months. He still wasn’t working. Is now dating a younger girl—about whom he said: “I don’t want to say she’s nosey, but she’s definitely inquisitive.” And do you know that I actually defended the girl, saying that her curiosity was because of her age. Why did I defend her? Simply because, now that his voice had moved out of my imagination and into my ear, I realized that I had no emotion left for him. It was one of those moments like the one in “When Harry Met Sally”, where Sally’s ex calls her and she tells Harry that all she kept thinking during their conversation was that she had no idea how she had ever found anything about him remotely interesting. You know, same-old, same-old is only good when the ‘old’ was good to begin with.

Oh, and get this, dear readers, by doctor’s orders, Mr. Heartnicker’s Harley Davidson is now off limits and currently resides in his parents’ driveway. Poor little baby.

So, on about the sixth minute of our conversation, he says: “I hope this isn’t too weird, but I have a buddy that I think would be a good match for you.” Screeeeeeeech!

“Oh, really?” I asked, trying to sound as disinterested as possible. I leaned my head on the back of the couch and looked up at the ceiling.

“Yeah. He’s a good-looking kid. Nice,” he continued. I listened, eyebrows furrowed, mouth agape. “We go to church together, actually. I already mentioned you to him. I told him, ‘I think you and my friend Heather would be a good couple.’”

Yes. He did. He called me ‘friend’. More than once, actually. I guess, according to him, when he asked his new girl-toy for permission to call me, he told her I was his ‘friend Heather’. Whatever. There was nothing platonic about our months of dating…Anyhow…

I breathed, “Huh.”

“Yeah, I was gonna call you in a couple of days anyway to see if you wanted to go on a double date.” He said it like it really made perfect sense. Of course Heather will want to go on a double date with me and my new girlfriend. I mean, she’s one really cool chick. She’ll totally be down for that, dude.

“Huh.” I breathed again.

He continued, “Is that something you’re up for?”

So, here’s where I had an internal dialogue on fast-forward. Here’s what I thought, Holden Caufield style: Wow this guy really thinks that this wouldn’t bother me that going out with him and his new younger girl would be the most natural thing in the world. That kills me. That really does. He really thinks that I would be okay hearing myself being called the word ‘friend’ over and over again and not be bothered wow he’s more clueless than I ever thought he was thank the good Lord above that we’re no longer together. He’s a helluva guy. So now what do I go out with this other guy I mean Heartnicker is a good looking guy so this guy probably is cute and he goes to church and that’s a plus and you know life works in funny ways and maybe this could be God’s way of making sense of something that made no sense at all this. Shit.

“Sure. If you can figure out a way to connect us without it being weird, I’m game.” I did it. I accepted. Because, you know, you never really do know. Stranger things have happened. Maybe this Mr. J. Vaughn is my person. Maybe the oozing of this Can of Worms will lead not to poison but to magic. Maybe, just maybe, Mr. Heartnicker has a better grasp on what I need than even I do—which maybe is why he ended things with me in the first place—he already knew. Maybe he realizes, though, that despite the fact that he is not my person, I am worthy of someone special. Maybe I am his “What a Waste”. And, in that, this whole, strange thing is actually kind of flattering. And maybe, this time, the wriggling worms released by my action will aerate my heart rather than hurt it. And maybe I will see why life’s funny coincidences really aren’t coincidences at all. Just maybe.