Dumped Over Tapas, Eight Hours From Home

I had intended to submit this story to The New York Times for potential publication in the Styles section "Modern Love" column ... but who am I kidding. I'm too lazy and probably would get sued for libel, even with my (half-hearted) name change to protect the far-from-innocent. Anyway, here goes....

Rich was quieter than usual as we strolled from our hotel to the craft market in La Recoleta. The streets of Buenos Aires were deserted on Easter Sunday, with the locals in church or spending time with their families. As irreligious tourists with limited time, we forsook the holiday in favor of wandering the streets on our last day in Argentina.

At first I thought Rich was just tired. Undoubtedly the lavish wedding we attended the night before had taken its toll on us both. When we tried to leave at 5 a.m., the groom’s brother chastised us. "But pizza is being served an hour!" we were told. “You can’t leave yet!" At 6 a.m., after devouring a slice apiece, we snuck out of the celebration. Our 11 a.m. check-out time loomed and we knew our four days of revelry had taken its toll on our room. On three hours' sleep we packed and began our meandering stroll.

At first I thought perhaps exhaustion prevented conversation and we wandered the streets in silence. As the day wore on, I stopped trying to make conversation because I realized Rich’s characteristic reticence was in full gear. After two months together I had realized that my idle chatter irritated him and I learned to keep my musings to myself. But it was more than that – my tendency towards verbosity is one of my defining traits and as my friends later noted, I was not myself with Rich.

Upon our first encounter in Miami, we decided our parallel lives meant our meeting was fated. We attended the same college (he was a senior when I was a freshman); we both lived in Manhattan at the same time; we frequented the same restaurants and bars and stores; we attended the same law school, albeit years apart. Our paths probably crossed many times and when we met, it seemed like a story worthy of the Sunday Styles Wedding section. Of course thousands of people do all the same things we did – but they didn’t all meet as expatriates in exotic Miami.

Rich’s behavior started as attentive (or perhaps obsessive): text messages first thing in the morning; the 3 pm phone call; the 7:30 pm call on the way home from work, the barrage of e-mails, dinner at his parents’ house with the extended family. In the hot period, he sent me a text message saying “Want to go to Buenos Aires? My treat.” One cannot offer a Sagittarian free travel to an exotic locale and realistically expect any answer but yes. The trip became my Valentine’s Day present, personified in the form of a “Time Out” Guide to Buenos Aires. But by the time the trip rolled around, Rich had noticeably cooled. I felt like I lost points on his mental checklist every time I opened by mouth. So I became uncharacteristically quiet and nervous and never settled into the relationship. I convinced myself he would break up with me before our trip. Then before I knew it we were sitting on the plane, taking recreational doses of Benedryl to knock us out for the overnight flight.

We left the craft market and grabbed a cab to Palermo-Hollywood, a hip neighborhood populated with quaint outdoor cafes, stylish boutiques, and adorable apartments. We shopped for a while and decided to have tapas for dinner before catching a cab to the hotel to retrieve our bags and then head to the airport. Towards the end of the meal, Rich said, “What would you think about taking some time off when we get back to Miami?” Of course I knew my moment had come, the axe was falling, and after a weekend in which he had not only slighted and insulted me, but had been distant and downright cruel, I couldn’t restrain my bluntness.

“If something is bothering you,” I said, trying to maintain my calm, “a month will not help anything. If you have something to say, say it now.”

Of course I didn’t really expect him to dump me over a light dinner in a foreign country. And then he said the words I had long expected to hear:

“I don’t see this going anywhere.”

Silence.

And then conversation. The only real conversation we ever had, and the only conversation where I was very much myself. I was unrelenting and candid, and more than a little out-of-line. I am not a person you want to dump before embarking on an eight hour plane flight (though Rich objected to the term “dump” as being “too high school” – there was no point in arguing semantics, I replied, because the result, rejection, was exactly the same). Giving me eight hours to think of anything I might have forgotten to say is unwise, because I will say it the moment it comes to mind, without a censoring mechanism such as picking up a phone or logging onto e-mail to say it.

We kept talking as we hailed a cab and went to the hotel to pick up our bags. I was numb. One night after being out at a club, Rich had told me that trusting him was a mistake. That statement reverberated in my head. I could not hold back tears – from rejection, frustration, exhaustion, and a strange sense of relief – and I sobbed. I pulled myself together and we talked more, about his problems this time, classic Rich, always pulling the focus back to him, when I was the one being abandoned! I treated myself to a Cohiba from duty free and smoked one in the airport lounge while drinking a beer. He kept talking about his issues, his problems, him him him. And my silence probably evinced intent to listen, when in fact I was merely sedated by alcohol and nicotine, locked in a familiar position of self-loathing mixed with self-pity.

Within the hour we were buckled in our adjacent seats and he took my hand. He kissed me. He said he was sorry for hurting me. He held my hand nearly the whole way home and kissed me periodically. I pointed out that this was the most affection he had shown me in four days and he admitted it to be the truth. And he cried, I suspect for himself, not for hurting me. And I cried, because once again I had dated the wrong kind of guy. And we fell asleep, everything changed, curled up together in coach.

Gag Me With a Platinum Spoon

When I was in middle school, Channel 9 in the NYC suburbs used to air a cartoon called "Beverly Hills Teens." My sister and I loved watching the antics of spoiled, entitled, privileged rich kids, probably because as youngsters in an affluent town, we could relate to their misadventures. The catchphrase from that show, frequently uttered by one of the most atrocious characters was "gag me with a platinum spoon."

A new, real life class of entitled, overprivileged twenty-somethings has taken over and quite honestly, it makes me want to gag myself with a stainless steel spoon, as that is the only silverware in my price range. But I propose a new nickname for my peers more concerned with prestiege and the trappings of wealth and status than anything remotely real or valuable -- Gaggers.

As a disclaimer, I think it's necessary to add that I too am a child of privilege, of fancy suburban public schools, an Ivy League education, and now a legal education. My life has not been hard -- not even close. In fact, at the moment, aside from exams and being recently dumped by an asshole in a foreign country (keep checking back, story to follow), I am about as happy as I have ever been. So take what I say with a grain of salt ... it's a saucy melange of "the pot calling the kettle black" and jealousy inspired by those who have achieved more than I have.

I am utterly appalled by the attitude of many of my peers, here in Miami but more so in New York. The fact that there are those who make six figures, live in outrageously expensive lofts, and have even somewhat functional relationships, can dare to complain is beyond me. Now I don't mean complaining about mundane details of their day or the person occupying a neighboring table in an otherwise quiet library (see posting re: the most annoying man in the world). Rather, I am talking about flat out 'biting the hand that feeds them' complaining of the most egregious and narcisstistic sort.

Gaggers have jobs that many of my friends would kill for, even be so grateful to interview for, much less receive. Gaggers turn around and complain about mistreatment at these high-paying law firms, investment banks and consulting firms (if any are left). Guess what Gaggers, wake up call! -- they are paying you six figures for the right to mistreat you. Why this should come as a shock is beyond me. It isn't the case that as a 27 year old first or second year associate you are actually worth your salary, or make any real valuable contribution to your organization ... Chances are your superiors are more interesting having a little fun by ordering you around.

Gaggers call their prestigious alma maters "elitist" and may well be justified -- however, these individuals are probably elitist themselves for having attended such institutions and more importantly, for wanting to attend them, for losing sleep over college admissions senior year of high school, for having crying fits and tantrums at that thought of going to a state school ... or God forbid, a second tier school!

Gaggers have the luxury of complaining about daily ennui in the boardroom, their cubicle, or any other high-powered office environment. Gaggers fret over late delivery of their copy of The New York Times (carried around the office merely to appear intellectual when really they reach for The Post once entering their office and read Page Six religiously). Gaggers have pretensions of being keen social observers and remark at length about the foibles of their peers (am I myself a Gagger?) and yet never turn their inquiry around on themselves.

No doubt I will have much more to say on this topic, as I know many Gaggers and have been a Gagger myself on more than a few occasions. When I lived in New York, in the midst of a gaggle of Gaggers I did not fully realize how horrendous many of these individuals are. With distance comes perspective and as a fallen Gagger of sorts, a right to complain.

The most annoying man in the world

A short story, based on my evening in the library:

The most annoying man in the world occupies the table next to me.
Around dinner time, he plopped down at the table and invaded J's personal space.
He reeks of cigarette smoke and body odor
He is wearing a loud orange shirt
Even louder are his cell phone conversations
Louder than that, surprisingly, are his conversations with his friend, who has joined him at the table after ousting J.
The library, being a library, is quiet as a tomb, with the pitter patter of typing echoing from nearby cubicles at regular intervals.
There is no need for the most annoying man in the world to speak in not only a normal volume, but in a volume that might be considered loud for Yankee Stadium.
J got up to leave and whispered to me while the most annoying man in the world was talking to his tablemate about elementary matters of covenants and easements. I decided that I too would talk in a normal volume. When J was shocked and scared by my volume, I said, "evidently we are talking in a normal volume in this corner of the library."
People stood up and looked over the walls of neighboring cubicles.
The most annoying man in the world has a following.
And after a moment of detente, and with it, sweet, blissful silence, the most annoying man in the world struck again.
The most annoying man in the world stood up and said to his friend, in his best attempt at emulating a stage whisper, "Don't let these chicks steal my computer."
I glared at him, straight at him.
I said to him,
"It's not wise to call two women who are about four months shy of becoming attorneys 'chicks'."
He made a sorry attempt at apologizing. "I was joking."
"And you're bordering on sexual harassment" I replied. "You don't know us. Don't call us chicks."
An overreaction, perhaps. But I was pushed over the edge by the most annoying man in the world.