It must be so much less interesting to read this during a non-dating period. Yet, I don’t care. So there. Today, the plan is to go to see Million Dollar Baby right after work. I don’t really want to see it, but Mom wants to talk about it and there is the Oscar Nom and all the Good Reviews, so I’ll give it a shot. I was trying to decide between my pre-show greasy food options and I think I’m going to forego the pork bun and sesame ball in favor of burger and fries at the nearby 5 Guys. Haven’t had the burger and fries yet (post break-up), but I did have the fried pork bun, scallion bun and sesame ball on Tuesday. Today, I went over to the Plaza to mail something and I realized that I hadn’t had any ice cream yet and ice cream was indeed one of the most comforting of all comfort foods, so I stopped for a cone and sat and read my trashy novel and it was hard not to feel content.
I have to confess, though, that what I did at the Post Office left me in something of a doubtful state. Like, when you hear about women getting breast enlargements (is that right? Am I supposed to say ‘enhancements’?) and they say, ‘it’s not for men, it’s so I can feel better about myself.’ And I always think, are they out of their fucking minds? No one ever heard of a lesbian getting plastic boobs—or maybe I’m just buying into a vicious stereotype of lesbians as not catering to the image of women we promote in this society. I know lesbians with self-esteem issues (at least one anyway) and she knows darn well that bigger boobs aren’t going to make her feel better. As do most straight women. But, yes, that’s not the point at all.
The point: I went to the P.O. to mail something to Jake. On Tuesday, before our final call, and still feeling unsteady, but yet quite determined, I bought him a present. I guess it was meant to be a V-day present, or maybe just a general I-like-you present, but I bought it and there it was. Regarding me. Questioning me. Now, the present is just about the best little book about a cat you ever want to see and I fell in love with it the last time I was at my mom’s. It’s the book you get for the cat-lover who is not necessarily a cat person. I thought about giving it to Heather, and maybe, someday I will get her a copy, but I couldn’t give her this one. I would always remember that I got it for Jake in one of the most least-clearheaded moments of my life and that would haunt me. So, no good. I certainly couldn’t keep it. And, I still thought that Jake would really like it and I wanted him to have it, no strings, no guilt. (Remember him with his cats makes it hard to conjure up appropriate amounts of anger, though now I’m more in disbelief mode.) I would have preferred not to put my return address, but I did in case it doesn’t get to him (I had to take a guess on the apartment number). I didn’t put a note or a card nor did I wrap the book. It’s just in the bubble envelope and addressed to him. I figure it will make him feel bad, regretful even, which was not the point. But that’s the thing—were my motives truly unselfish (just doing it for myself, because it’s what I wanted to do?) or do I really want to get a reaction from him? Well, I certainly don’t expect to hear from him or get a thank you. If he feels a little twinge that wouldn’t bother me though. If he really likes the book and appreciates it, that would be even better. Ah, geez, I’m awfully icky, aren’t I? He’ll open it up and think, ‘she really was a sweetheart.’ Ok, let’s be a little bit selfish—I had to get that damn book far, far away from me. If it finds a good home with Jake, so much the better. As long as I never have to look at that particular copy of it again, I’m happy.
I’m also happy because I’m going to spend as much time as possible at the movies this weekend. I don’t really even feel sad. Is there something wrong with me? No, wait, don’t answer that.