I really should go through and delete a few of the 250 contacts in my cell phone. But what if I have an emergency and need to call Tyne Daly? And what are the chances that I’ll find myself in San Francisco and need to contact that psychic in the Castro? Or even worse… what if that guy who looks just like Lou Perlman (the “alleged” pedophile who created all those boy bands), who I met at the Abbey after my tenth martini (nearly a year and a half ago) calls? Again? I need to learn to not answer his call inviting me to his orgy in Pasadena.
I was driving down Sunset Blvd. last week with the top down and Rihanna blasting from my radio. She was singing about how the relationship was over and it was time for her love interest to take a bow.
Which made me think of my ex, Christopher. Christopher is one of those brooding artist types. We connected on so many different levels. I still consider him the big one that got away. Only he didn’t really get away. He just announced to God and everyone, “I don’t love you anymore.”
Christopher lives in New York. We haven’t seen each other in over two years. The last time we spoke, it was after midnight at a Dunkin Donuts on the outskirts of Boston and we were screaming at each other like a pimp and one-legged prostitute on an episode of COPS.
And since I was trying to get over Cooper, the Canadian actor who left me for a cyborg, I decided to call Christopher.
One ringy dingy. Two ringy dingy. Three ringy dingy…
“Hello, this is Cooper.”
My first thought was, 'Why is Cooper answering Christopher’s phone?' It’s like they're ganging up on me now! Like they formed a club! I can see the invite now: “Are you emotionally unavailable? Is Alex Fergusen interested in you? Well join our club. We have t-shirts.”
Then I looked at the screen. I called Cooper by accident.
My phone number is “restricted” on Caller I.D.—yes, it annoys all of my friends, but there are certain people that I don’t want having my number—so I figured I could simply hang up. But then I remembered he said he only knows two people with a 'restricted' number. So what if he calls the other person and they say, 'sorry, wasn’t me?'
Then I look like the crazy stalker Gwyneth Paltrow played in that Melissa Etheridge video “I Want to Come Over”... which, as a sidenote: Can someone explain to me why most of Brad Pitt’s ex-girlfriends have appeared in her videos? I’m still waiting for Angelina Jolie to pop up in one.
Cooper’s then going to go to his friends and say, 'Alex is calling and hanging up on me! What do I need to do to get a restraining order before he gets dangerous?'
So rather than hang up, I blurted out—and sadly, quickly—'Hey, Cooper. I’m so sorry. I thought I was calling Christopher and I accidentally called you.'
There was a pause. 'Oh, no worries,' he replied. 'What’s going on?'
What I wanted to say was, 'Me! I’m what’s going on! And if you would open your freaking eyes you would realize that!! But no! You’re too stupid to see that you big, fat dumbhead!'
But, what I said was, 'Oh… you know… nothing. Not a lot. You?'
If my hair were any longer or blonder, I probably would’ve been twirling it.
And then he asked me if I wanted to go to lunch.
Ah ha! So I’ve completely misconstrued what has happened over the past few weeks. He realized that he’s made me sad by ignoring me and this was his way of trying to apologize. Besides, he’s been busy, right?
I said that sounded great. I just needed to check my calendar, because I had a lot of meetings scheduled that week. End of call.
I checked my calendar later that night as promised and e-mailed him.
Four days later I’ve not heard a word from this man.
So I decided to call him. He said 'it completely slipped his mind.' Completely slipped his mind. Someone nominate this guy as Hollywood’s Most Eligible Bachelor, cause he’s a winner.
He asks me if I’m going to one of those 'throw a go go boy on a box, play '80s music and call it a theme night' parties. I would rather swallow glass than spend my evening in a sardine can with two thousand shirtless, high and drunk 20-somethings after having paid twenty bucks to be there. So I said, 'Hell no.'
I asked him what he was doing on Sunday and he replied, 'just spending it by myself.'
And scene.
I get it. Clearly he’s not into me. But why in the hell do you ask me out to lunch? What sort of masochist does that to a person? Is it a Canadian thing?
Don’t get me wrong. I love my Canadians. Some of my best friends are Canadian. But they are just a touch too nice. And they pronounce 'sorry' funny—but they have amazing over the counter medications.
After his 'just spending it by myself' hung in the air for about ten seconds, I concluded our faux relationship with, 'Alrighty then. You take care. I’m going to let you go now. Goodbye.'
I went home. I listened to sad lesbian work music. I played “Bleeding Love” on loop for a few hours. I almost bought a pint of Ben and Jerry’s, but then realized I’m just hurting myself.
Unfortunately, I have to drive past his house every day. I live in fear he’s going to look out his window and see me sitting at a red light.
We still have mutual friends. Whenever I go out, I have to pay special attention to scan the room to see if he’s there.
So I had to start the letting go process.
My music selections have gone from “Bleeding Love” and “No Air” to “I Can’t Make You Love Me” and “You Oughta Know.” And for some reason, I felt a strong need to go buy a Louisville Slugger at two in the morning.
It’s a very involved process, the act of letting go of a relationship that never happened. You have to delete them from your MySpace and Facebook pages. You have to delete their website from your bookmarks. Delete all their e-mails. Delete their e-mail addresses. Delete any pictures from your hard drive.
But I can’t delete his phone number. I mean, he might call!
You see, relationships, like grief, have five stages. Denial: 'I can’t believe he’s not interested in me!' Anger: 'Who the hell does he think he is!?' Bargaining: 'We can be friends!' Depression: 'HE DOESN’T LIKE ME!' And then finally —and most importantly—Acceptance: “What the f#ck was I thinking!?”
I hit acceptance last night and realized a very important lesson: Never date an actor.
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