In a Town So Small, There's No Escape From You...

I've often mused on the Belle & Sebastian lyric that comprises the title of this post. It has meant different things to me at different points but has never ceased to be relevant, no matter where I have lived or to whom I have applied it. I know I have mentioned it in a previous post, but it is really just perfect.

In New York it applied to my college ex-boyfriend, whom I still encountered on an all-too-regular basis. Moving to Miami stopped that one dead in its tracks.

In my subsequent visits to Manhattan, turning around street corners in Nolita and the Lower East Side it reminds me of my charming Englishman.

Lately in Miami, it has applied to ex-BF, whom I see on the causeway and I-95 several times a week. Despite my best intentions to avoid him, there he is, in a line of cars attempting to exit at Miami Avenue, waiting in a line to get on the causeway ... he's just everywhere.

Last Friday night he called the friend I was out with to see what he was up to. We were at a bar across the street from his apartment building watching a baseball game. Ex-BF would not come over, pleading tiredness, but really I suspect that but for my presence, he might have sucked it up and walked across the street.

Last night, he was out with another set of friends when I called. But for his presence, I would have joined them.

He lives ten blocks away. His building is on my route to the grocery store, to the bank, to Lincoln Road. While this was once tremendously convenient, it is now nothing but painful. On one hand I do not want to change my life and my routines because of him -- it gives him way too much power in my mind. On the other hand, altering my behavior may be the easiest way to avoid him altogether and hence get over him.

The situation has recently become a little more dire than I first realized. I purchased a book called "It's Called a Break-Up Because It's Broken." The book is essentially a series of rules and pieces of advice to get over the guy who dumped you. I was skeptical at first, but willing to try anything. The book tries to empower the female dumpees of the world to stop sitting at home alone eating ice cream and get on with their lives. In my mind the most influential part of the book are letters from other girls in my situation -- dumped for no apparent reason, completely bewildered, and more than a little upset. It's a good reminder that I am not alone in this.

Last night I was looking for plans and could not find anyone willing to go out. Perhaps the message of the book -- to get on with my life -- gave me the strength of will to leave the house, alone, and go watch the baseball game at my favorite neighborhood bar, across the street from ex-BF's apartment.

I didn't even realize it until this morning, but when I exited the cab last night, I didn't even look to see if his car was there. I watched a couple innings alone until I realized two friends were randomly in the same bar.

This is a small town, to be sure. As the book would put it, the "best-worst" thing about it being a small town is that I can't escape ex-BF ... but it means I am bound to run into people I adore, when I least expect it.

On Pop Culture, Stalking, and #37

The title of this post is misleading, as this is actually post #38. But when I saw I had 37 posts I could only think of the line from "Clerks" -- about 37 being the number of dicks Caitlin Bree had sucked. I can't count the number of times I have heard someone randomly exclaim "37!" and you know you have found a fellow Kevin Smith fan.

Last night I ventured to the Seminole Hard Rock Casino and entertainment complex located somewhere in the middle of nowhere in Broward County. To quote another great pop culture reference, namely Carrie Bradshaw of "Sex and the City", Fort Lauderdale is like a small European country ... the music and fashion are all five years behind. I know, it worked better in reference to Staten Island, but if you have been to the Seminole, you know what I'm talking about.

My friend M and I went on an exploratory mission, hoping to gather enough ammunition to convince other friends to join us at the Seminole another night. In all it was a pleasant evening, despite disgusting bachelor partiers from out of state at a too-cool-for-you type of establishment, in addition to the half hour drive up I-95, dodging drunk drivers and other associated morons. The drinks were cheap (well, compared to the Beach, at least...), the lines were short (again, compared to the Beach) and we were probably the thinnest girls in the clubs. It's amazing that you can comparatively look like you lost ten pounds just by crossing a county line, but it's true. No doubt girls were looking at us and saying we must not eat, when in fact we say the very same things about the girls we see out every weekend in Miami. Just one indication that sure enough, everything is relative.

I was interested in the Seminole for another reason, as well -- ex-BF frequents the casino often (more often than he should) and I was curious to see where it was he spent all his time. No, I wasn't stalking him, I knew he was at the Hurricanes game. So, ok, yes, I was stalking him, because I knew where he was going to be, but I was trying to avoid him, not find him.

And speaking of stalking, the cunning overlords of Friendster have made stalking just a little more difficult by allowing users to see who has checked their profiles. I think I scoped out nearly every single man in South Florida the other night, hopefully before this feature was added. Fortunately the feature can be turned off, but it definitely takes people a little while to figure it out. Interestingly enough, an old crush of mine (read: former obsession) checked my profile the other day. He has a girlfriend, lives out-of-state, but comes through town on occasion. So I e-mailed him. I'm not a homewrecker, I'm just saying hello.

After all - he's the one who checked ME out.