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Predicament of the Week
In which Breakup Girl addresses the situation that has, this week, brought her the most (a) amusement, (b) relief that it is happening to someone else, and/or (c) proof that she could not possibly be making this stuff up.

Dear Breakup Girl,

I am a hot head -- one of those people whose life runs on passion, but not necessarily on the romantic kind. It doesn't matter what kind of relationship I have with someone: be it personal, professional, social, romantic, or platonic, I invest a lot of emotional energy in my moments with them. My father died when I was 15; I had cancer when I was 19; and there have been lots of other tragedies that have both gotten me down and taught me that life is a short and wonderful gift to be lived completely. I've finally learned, at 26, to live in the moment and stop looking over my shoulder for the next bad thing to happen.

Yes, I have walked the path from love to heartbreak and back often enough. But I have always recovered.

And then, I ran out of passion. This summer, I fell in love with an incredibly intelligent, good looking, sensitive, and communicative man. There were also pheromones. The smell of his neck made my knees buckle. This attraction lead to great conversation, comfortable hanging out, and ten-minute tantric orgasms.

What there wasn't was an agreement. I feel that I don't know how to negotiate details in the "Are we going out now?" or "Are you my boyfriend?" arena. I always thought that God would take care of the details, but I guess I ignored, at my peril, the million books about how to get married and all the articles in fashion magazines about how to get and keep a man.

So, one night, I stay over with the man I am completely in love with and find a pair of panties on the floor of his very messy room. They are not a pair of my panties. I do have a selection of white cotton panties, but not of that discount shop brand. And, we didn't have an agreement, so I knew didn't have any right to scream with jealousy and disappointment...but I wanted to. Instead, I could only say that I hated finding them. He said, much later, that they were out because he was cleaning out his closet and only half-finished the job. And, I have a silent rage about the way women send messages to each other about men and about "her" cut price brand of underwear.

Well, it must have been a three-pack because I finally got around to doing a mountain of my own laundry and found that I do, indeed, possess the other two pairs of cheap underwear. So, they were mine, but it still made sense to him that I might find another woman's panties in his very messy room.

I want to laugh because this is really funny. I want my sides to ache from laughing so hard, but I can't. I am still livid. I haven't been able to feel anything but anger for two months now. It used to feel good to be angry for short bouts. It stirred me up, got me moving, got some passion flowing. Now, I'm just exhausted and overwhelmed all the time. I hate being around men. I hate all my male friends, my brothers, coworkers, and dates. I hate it, but I don't do anything to reduce contact. In fact, I've been going out with more men, different men, than I ever have before. I take every opportunity I get to express this general anger and hostility toward men in general. And the bloody morons call me back, too.

What worries me is that I spent the last of my emotional energy on that last "relationship." There are no positive emotions left in me, and I am scared that they will never, ever come back. The only thing I know is that I am not having very much fun and that my beautiful life feels ruined. And that is something I do not know how to recover from. Do you know how?

--Terrible in Toronto

Dear Terrible,

I know Monica said a thong is a "dance," but other than that, I'm not sure about this whole thing about women sending messages in cut-rate panty code. Also, that is the second-to-last time this letter that I will say my second-least-favorite word, "panty" (least favorite: "glean").

But anyway. Whoa WHOA WHOA!

I completely get that you would have wanted to hear a much better explanation from Tantric Guy ("Um, actually, gorgeous, those are yours, and boy do they look good on my floor! I left them there because they made me want you so bad all day. In fact, that 3-pak kind is so way hotter than that gross schmancy stuff that I hear that -- because I am not sleeping with them -- other women wear...")* And I completely get that jealousy is free-floating, irrational, and as messy as his room.

But to go from one pair of bloomers to hating the whole bloomin' gender (not to mention your whole bloomin' life)!? That's a leap so big you need a sports bra.

So why did an XS goof trigger an XXL reaction? Hate to say it: I'm really not sure. But that's the question you've got to mull over in order to "recover," Ms. Hothead. Blaming yourself and taking it out on them? Fear of commitment, blah blah blah? Easier to hate than to love? Think about it; you've only half-finished cleaning out your closet. I do know that hating/dating men universally/simultaneously is an excellent way to not learn all that stuff you won't learn (don't make me say "glean") from most of those books anyway. Consider that whatever tragedy you've had in your life, you've already used up a three-pack (or two). Now allow yourself to (re)find first-rate romance.

Love,
Breakup Girl

* (Hey: are you sure he knew you assumed they were someone else's?)

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