< PREVIOUS LETTER   ||   NEXT LETTER >
 

Dear Breakup Girl,

After dating Mr. Not-So-Big for about 5 months, I decided that the best thing for me would be to break up with him. He is 50 years old, and at first it was a refreshing change from the much younger men I usually date. I was tired of explaining everything to them -- "See honey, this is The Beatles" -- and Mr. NSB seemed to be all that and more. Intelligent, witty, from the same old neighborhood in L.A., and a Dodger fan.

But things changed, and the true colors surfaced. He still had ties to old relationships he called "friends" and it is my own experience that when it's over, it's over, Yogi. And by his own admission, he "couldn't commit to furniture," although I took him to buy a dining table because I was tired of us eating off the same little tray table at his place. Ah, his place--early dorm room, complete with stacks of magazines and books, weight bench set still in the box, and cobwebs "I can't reach" in every room. He was great from 0 to 60, with the flowers, wine, poetry--but he faded out on the open highway. Again, The Big C was too much for him.

I tried to break up with him twice before. The first time, I let him talk me into staying. Big mistake. Next time, he was cold and rude to my best friend when I introduced them. I was so ticked off! He said he had a headache. When my beautiful Siamese cat died, I asked to see him that night. Again, he had something else to do. Everyone else, these "friends" came first.

So I set up a date to have a talk with him. I told him I loved him but, baby, I want the Front Porch and the Y2K Kiss at midnight, just not with him. So here he comes back saying he still wants to see me as "friends" once a week. I told him he has plenty of them to go out and play with. "But none like you, Christine!" Damn straight, sucker! I want and deserve more. I live in California and we have the Three Strikes law. It should apply to relationships as well. So I packed the stuff he gave me into a Structure shopping bag and told him take it all back and go.

That was three weeks ago. It's the hardest thing to do, loving someone warts and all, but knowing that if you stay, it'll be nothing but bad news. I guess I still love him for all the other qualities that attracted me in the first place, but I'm not going there! Now I told you this story, BG, to get to my BIG QUESTION. Tah-dah! Last week he called me at work to ask me if it really was Leonard Cohen's birthday. Mr. NSB thought Cohen was dead. Come on, now. He has the Net hooked up at his office, so why'd he have to call me to find out about Leonard? Geesh, it could have been about Lynyrd Skynyrd for all I know. I started to talk to him, but I could hear the Scooby Doo coming out in his voice, so I cut the conversation short. OK, what was that all about, please tell me? I'm 49 and there aren't too many more days till I get the Y2K Kiss at midnight!

-- Christine in Cucamonga

Dear Christine,

He had to call because when he goes on the Internet, he doesn't get to talk to you.

He's said; it's sad. Saying goodbye to someone, even to their warts and weights and cobwebs, is always, always, sad. Because you were also saying goodbye to Dodgers and dahlias and a chance at romance.

Even so, Christine, I'll simply confirm what you've said yourself: you can't commit to a Porch with someone who can't commit to a chair. No matter whom you're with at midnight, BG's Twelve Strikes law is this: tip a glass to yourself and trust that in the next millennium someone will show up with a bulging Structure bag, a dining room dinner and a Cohen song in his heart, all for you.

Love,
Breakup Girl

< PREVIOUS LETTER   ||   NEXT LETTER >