If you've ever been to a Renaissance Fair you've probably seen those wine glasses with the pewter bases made so that the matching set fits together to form something, usually the shape of a heart. Sometimes the base is a bunch of flowers, or fairies, or stars. Today my mother came home from her bowling league and handed me a wrapped bundle, saying that one of the women on her league, the mother of an ex, had told her to bring it to me. Inside was one of those wine glasses, the pewter base in the shape of a dragon, the flute a deep royal blue, and the matching glass on display inside my TV stand, where it's been standing solitary for about five years. Before that it was in storage for a few years and before that it was on various shelves, always solitary. Within minutes, my eyes were misty, despite the fact I was smiling. I knew exactly what the glass symbolized. He was over me. Finally.
Rewind to the summer of 1999. I was dating Angel and I was actually going to marry the guy. That was the plan anyway. Aren't twenty-year-olds and their plans adorable? Anyway, he was perfect. Except that he had an issue with us being the same height so I wasn't allowed to wear heels because they made him look short. And he loved the sexy way I dressed-until we started dating, because then it drew too much male attention. And he thought it was great that I was self sufficient and confident, except he wanted me to quit working and start popping out kids and stay home once we were married. (I'm his dream come true now.) Also, it was great I had my own life and friends. Except could I please not hang out with any males and drop all my friends because they were bad influences, and instead be with him every waking moment? But that meant he really loved me right? Like I said, aren't twenty-year-olds adorable?
To his credit I did cheat on him. It wasn't until after the thirty or fortieth time he accused me of it simply by virtue of there being a penis in the same building as me. But I probably would have anyway if I'm going to be honest. Most of my twenties were spent in a semi-buzzed hypomanic frenzy where every other person who met me thought they were in love with me and had to have me. I studied like a librarian, fucked like a porn star (mostly just Angel-the guy got a blow-job a day), worked like a day laborer, and partied like a rock star. Then occasionally slept and did it all over again. Hell, even if there wasn't a penis in the room I would have cheated. And did. I remember telling Angel one day I thought I might be interested in women and wanted to experience lesbian sex before we were married. He screamed at me about how disgusting and unnatural I was and forbade it. And he tried to kill us. Of course, I randomly came out with that while he was driving down Queens Blvd. at a good clip so maybe the attempted vehicular homicide wasn't intentional. But forbid me something and I don't take that shit well. I started up an affair the next week with a woman from work. I didn't even like her all that much. But that was kind of the point. I was going to marry Angel and didn't want to fall in love with someone else. I just wanted to dip my...umm...toe in the...umm...water.
I was a crazy bitch. But I kept it to myselves. And I had alot of selves. To this day I still have people come out of nowhere and say "Back in college I was in love with you and you were oblivious." I tell them to consider themselves lucky. To love me and to have been loved by me, in my fashion, at that point in my life, is like having a war story. I have an equal number of people who I did take notice of and who either avoid and hate me, are still telling me they have never found my replacement (creepy), or who call me whenever they've broken up with their latest partner to ask me why they are so broken and unlovable and how they can possibly be fixed. They call me, over ten years later, even though I am married and have two children, to receive my affirmations of love. Because I fucked their heads up to the point that, for whatever reason, my affections still matter to them. I still maintain none of them were ever really in love with me, only the ideal they thought I was. But try explaining that to someone you broke. Yes, I was an amazing person back then with alot going for me and I could, by proxy, make anyone dating me feel like an equally amazing person. And there are those who came away unscathed, some even better for the experience. But, for the most part, dating me in my twenties was like playing Russian roulette with five in the cylinder. An incredible rush, but probably not worth the long term risk.
Anyway, the wine glass. I bought the set at the Renaissance Fair in upstate NY in 1999 when I caught Angel looking at them over and over again. One glass went to him and I kept the other. The plan was that we'd use them as our champagne glasses on our wedding day and then they'd sit on our mantle, forever entwined in the heart shape they made. A great romantic story for the grandkids. It didn't work out so well when we broke up a couple of years later. Amazingly, not because he discovered my cheating heart. I finally ended things. Several times. It took several times because he didn't want to let go, even threatening suicide, and it hurt to hurt him and I was a coward. But it did end. And we each kept a glass. I have no idea what he did with his. But, after an appropriate amount of time, I put mine back on display. It's pretty. Every so often we'd talk and they'd come up and I'd offer to give him my glass. (After all, I did technically buy the set as a gift for him.) He always declined. And so I just had my solitary wine glass.
Angel was still talking to me and flirting with me for years, after his initial anger and pain died down. And after he got his vengeance by going out and slutting it up. (I'd popped his cherry, but hadn't been a virgin when we started dating.) We even went out and got a drink a couple of times. He always wanted to know what he'd done wrong to lose me. And I always answered him honestly. I never told him how badly I cheated. No reason to pour salt on the wound. But I did tell him I wasn't what he wanted in a woman anyway and he was trying too hard to create a perfect woman rather than find someone who already fit the bill. About a year or so ago he started dating Maggie. And they've been going strong. At first he was messaging me once a week asking me all sorts of things about dating advice and what to do with this new woman. Then once a month. Then every so often. Then I found myself initiating conversations with him just as often as he initiated them with me. And there's been much less flirting or anything inappropriate or weird from him.
Today, I got the wine glass. I was surprised at the sting. Small, but there. Angel was the only guy I was ever actually planning to marry. With Nick all this just sort of happened. We didn't have a plan. Yeah, right. Nick and I? He tied me down by knocking me up, and even that almost didn't quite work. But Angel I was actually planning on the happily ever after, despite the cheating and the undercover lesbian action and him trying to fit me into a cookie cutter mold at 20 that I'm still uncomfortable in at 31. So him being over me for realsies, as symbolizes by exorcising my demon wine glass, stung. But good for him. He found his perfect woman. I'm happy for him. And it means I can stop carrying the guilt of having broken his heart on my shoulders. Which is awesome since carrying two kids did a number on my spine. Besides, the pair of glasses looks so much cooler in my cabinet than the solo glass did. Score!
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