Hope Dies Last

It was early morning and for a woman who doesn’t take sales as seriously as her gender shoulds her to take them, I was on my way to Zara.It was pouring down with rain. A fitting tribute to the state of my mind. Feeling pessimistic, I was surprised to find a parking space only ten short steps away from my destination. Most spaces in Athens require parallel parking; a manoeuvre that I have just about mastered and could do with my eyes half closed.

On this particular day however my over confidence got the better of me. It could have been the rain, it could have been the greyness of my mood and the earliness of the morning but as I reversed and turned, I nipped the stationary car next to me.

It was early, cold and raining and there was no one else on the road. Not a single soul. My instinct was to jump out and inspect the damage I had caused. Thankfully, it was minimal; nothing a paint job couldn’t fix. No indentations just a tiny scratch. I then took a photo of my handiwork. Still not a single soul. I felt that I needed a presence; some other person to tell me what to do. Perhaps, a crowd. To condone me for my appalling parking skills or to applaud me for my humanity.

But as with most events in my life, it was just me, the rain and this drama I had created.

‘I could leave and no one would ever know it was me‘ I thought.

Instead, I parked (making sure not to hit him again) and wrote a note on the back of a receipt.

Dear Black Astra Driver,

I am so sorry. I accidentally bumped into the left side of your car as I was parking. My number is [redacted]. Please call me. I’d like to make it up to you. Again, I am so sorry!

I left the note on his windshield and went home. My shopping plans canceled. Thankful that the darkness of my mood was now–at the very least–confirmed by a concrete reason.

My number was never used for reasons I do not understand. But every now and again, I think of that day. My action and then my reaction. I think about the way that I took responsibility. I think about that thought that ran through my mind while I was there in the moment. How easy it could have been to avoid, to ignore, to deny and to carry on shopping because there was no other human around to notice the damage I had caused. How easy it would be to carry on living and never acknowledge the inconvenience I may have caused another person.

And then I think about the men (and friends) that have denied me a conversation. I think about the people that have refused to take responsibility for the scars they have left me. I have defended these people because that is the way I am wired. I can find a justification to almost all the bad things that have been done to me.   Tragic [and extreme] case in point: I can find no hatred within me for the person who stabbed my father to death. This was the early 90s in South Africa; apartheid was the parent of all black people and my father was white.  His dying will never be justified to me.  But–in my mind–the actions of the man who held that knife can be justified by that much larger social issue.

But then I realize that I had a choice on that day. A split second choice between running away or admitting I made a mistake and accepting the consequences. Whatever those may have been. If I had that choice, then most of us [barring the sociopaths among us] have that choice. And I think to myself that I’d like to meet a man who takes responsibility for his actions. A man who mans up and has the awkward conversation with me. I am not interested in a person who has witnessed the pain they have caused me and chosen to look the other way. I am not interested in a person who takes the easy way out. [Even though I can understand the reasons that they do.]

Some may argue that this is a high expectation. But I think it is probably the very least we should expect from one another.

Some compassion.

A little acknowledgment of our own mistakes.

Some sort of sincere regret.

I’ll take it.

Even if it is in the form of a hastily written apology on the back of a forgotten receipt stuffed underneath a windshield wiper.

Somewhere out there is a boy that received a text message that looked like so:

:(

Simple enough right?

No. This feat of engineering, science and literature took two brainy women (writers no less) two a half cigarettes and ten minutes to prepare.

‘Should it be sent like this’

:(

‘Or like this?’

: (

We analyzed.

Then upon reflection, stared at each other and burst out laughing.

This is probably the best part of a crush. Hanging out with your girlfriends, composing messages, dreaming of all the possible responses and talking. Just talking. Of the loveliness, of the butterflies, of the ‘look’ he gave, of the if’s and when’s and how’s. Of the future. And the past. Of all the paths that brought you down this path.

This boy is not my crush. Yet I’m still crushing.

I’m crushing on hope. I’m crushing on potential. I’m crushing on risks. I’m crushing on being allowed to be a part of some sort of a beginning.

And if this is as close as I will get to a crush this winter, or spring or even summer it will be enough. Because this is the best part of a crush. The part where you spend ten minutes shamelessly debating one space between two punctuation marks.

Tell me about your crush.

Dear Future Man Friend,

Last night, I was a girlfriend.

The men wore trilby’s and suits. The women had feathers in their hair and strawberry soaked stains on their lips. Sing sing sing–of gramophone quality–shimmied into a smoky, golden room. The whole evening was dipped in sepia tones. Our costumes allowed us to leave Greece of 2010 outside and be entirely different characters in New York of 1925. The past always seems so much more decadent than the present.

So, spontaneously and with no co-ordination we gave each other new names and background stories.

There was Gus–the Mob Boss with his gold tipped cane.  Bella Fontaine–a Hollywood Starlet–and her date Slick Ace–a politician with his fingers in all sorts of pies–whispered in a secret corner.  There was  Norman The Nuke–a physicist and Eva–the lesbian from Europe. There was Rose–a young gal from the South trying to make it in the big city. Holly–the belle du jour–was a high priced call girl.There was Richie, Tony and Micky Blue Eyes–all swindlers of the most notorious kind.

And then there was me.

Pearl.

The Boss’s girlfriend.

The title was given to me by a lovely girl who I hardly know. There were nods of enthusiastic agreement from the rest as she proposed my new identity. For the rest of the night as I would catch my alter egos reflection in a gilded mirror I thought to myself,

‘Imagine that? I look like the type that would be a girlfriend.’

(Not just any girlfriend,Man Friend,  but a gangster’s girl. I love that. It’s so naughty.)

My cynical, jaded self would love to shrug this off as a silly game of make believe. But my never cautiously optimistic self wants to believe that if I look like a girlfriend, if I act like a girlfriend at some point I’m going to be a girlfriend.

Right?

Waiting for you with red lips and bated breath,

Hope

p.s You can call me Pearl in any era, Man Friend.

[Idea for this post has been stolen outright from Mr Peter deWolf.]

Over the last week, 5 bloggers and 5 photographers took over the internet with 5 stories for Just A Moment.

Here is the lineup with some of my favourite excerpts.

Day 1: Words by Peter/Image by Jen

The door opens.

It’s him.

Him.

Messy hair.  Unshaven.

He looks even more handsome than he did a month earlier.

The day she broke his heart. More…

Day 2: Words by me/ Image by Rachel

I want to know that on my death bed there will be a soul that will miss me. A soul that could confirm I had indeed existed.  Without him, I will be a red lipstick imprint smudged on the rim of a cracked tea cup. More…

Day 3: Words by Joy/Image by Lauren

I lacked stabilization; felt as though I was going to break apart at any minute.

Like if I didn’t spend every moment of the day concentrating on keeping it together, my heart was going to explode out of my chest and flop around on the floor like a fish until it finally stopped from sheer exhaustion and pain.

Because that’s what happens when you’re ruined. More…

Day 4: Words by Tia/Image by Ashley Forrette

When the strongest person you know says those words, you don’t ask questions.  You come home.  You leave the city that never sleeps for the village of vicarious living.  You blow in like a bad storm on a codependent night, full of airplane vodka and regret. More…

Day 5: Words by Ben/Image by Ashley

Their walks would always be leisurely and always pass through the nearby fields. He would always grab her. She would always squeal. They would always fall. Planned spontaneity? Perhaps…but he considered it their own daily dance for the dandelions in the fields that never gave rise to roses. More…

If you haven’t already, go get yourself some tea, hunker down and prepare to be blow away.

To celebrate the fact that I can now use Google Analytics , I figured it was high time to re-highlight the top searches that bring people to Hope Dies Last. Facebook seems to be a popular concern for most, so I figured I would collect them all into one, easy to read post.

In no particular order:

1. Who is stalking me on Facebook?

Look I understand that in some circles Google is God, but Google will not be able to spit out the name and locations of the people you think are stalking you on Facebook. Yet, Google thinks I can so I’ll do what I can to help. While I don’t know you personally I can tell you who I ’stalk’. Mainly ex-boyfriends, ex-boyfriends new girlfriends, ex-crushes and ex-crushes new flames, current crushes and currents crushes female friends. I think that pretty much covers it. So the person who is stalking you is very likely an admirer (Yay!), an ex-admirer (Yay?), an ex (Nay!) or an exes’ new girlfriend (Yay?) Worst case scenario its some guy who hasn’t gotten laid in awhile.

2. How to Facebook stalk?

Why, I’m glad you asked. Apparently back in its youthful days, one could create a fake account and then use that account to stalk to their hearts content. Nowadays, with all the privacy settings it is hard to stalk people that are not on your friends list. May I also just add that while looking through other people’s photos and reading every single wall comment can be fun, it is mainly soul crushing. My advice:  Instead of stalking, play a game on Facebook. Its much more dignified.

3. Should I delete my ex from Facebook?

This is a controversial question, one that I have discussed with couples. The consensus here is that if it was an amicable breakup and you are still on speaking terms, no. If you the break up was painful but you still respect that person, no.  If however the ex in question is still not over you, posts over the top wall messages, confesses love to you daily, then simply block.

4. Ex deleted me from Facebook. What does this mean?

The answer to this question varies. If you were harassing them, this is the sign that you should stop. If however you had no contact it could be for a couple of reasons. The new partner requested that all exes be removed from the friend list. Or your ex was spring cleaning and deleted all people they do not speak to anymore. Or your ex would like to show you that they have moved on. This is a hard one to muster but I believe that only good can come from it.

5. Women delete you from Facebook. Reason.

I actually feel awful about this one. Its a little sad. Do you mean that all women delete you? Do they know you? Or are you randomly adding hot women to your list and then discovered months later that they’ve deleted you? I don’t believe in discrimination, so I usually reserve the delete button for people that for one reason or another are no longer in my life. Does that help?

6. Facebook. Someone posts on girlfriend’s wall.

And? Is that it? Someone posted on your girlfriend’s wall? I say take a chill pill, learn to trust a little and ask her about it. People have been cheating from the dawn of time, Facebook has not made it easier or harder. And if it was me? I wouldn’t be that concerned about messages that are openly posted on the wall, I would be far more curious of  private messages. Oops! Didn’t mean to open that can of worms…

7. Deleted ex from Facebook. But still stalking.

Are you still stalking your ex? Or are they still stalking you? If its the former, give yourself some time. Pretty soon, you’ll meet someone else (says the woman that never believes that) and you will stop stalking to him. If its the latter, and you’re worried for your safety, restraining order.

Reader participation: What is your experience with any of the above? Are you a self-professed Facebook stalker? Do you delete your exes or not? Tell me what you think.