Slump Buster is back. At least via text. When yet another message arrived on Friday night, I responded. I know, naughty, naughty Man Eater. Go ahead, spank me. Three is the magic number for giving it up. So I gave in.
I swore to myself that I wouldn’t post the exchange verbatim, but I will give you the beginning and the end. As for the middle, you'll have to fill it in with your imagination (though I will say we covered every taboo topic that transpired this summer and four letter words, including “cock”, were dropped on both sides.)
SB: I heard you had a tough breakup, Erica. Just asking if you’re doing ok. No other motives.
My first thought: Umm…yes, I did have a tough breakup. Maybe you heard about it back in May! It was with you!
ME: Yes, I’m OK. My latest breakup was surprisingly easy. I dare say I’m already over it. Perhaps I have you to thank for that. You broke me in pretty hard.
While I was initially motivated by anger, as the conversation continued, I (gasp!) actually believed that Slump Buster was genuine in his concern for me. And that, dear readers, led to two hours of back-and-forth innuendo, ending with:
SB: You’re definitely, perfectly brazen. All sex and flirting, all the time.
ME: Kinda makes you wonder why you ever let me get away, hmmmmmmm?
SB: Oh, Erica…You’re simple insatiable. ;-)
That’s my name, don’t wear it out…but did Slump Buster want to go out again? Just to check, I invited him to join me that night for a concert.
Considering Slump Buster’s track record on follow-through (lousy), why did I set myself up for disappointment? Because, though it was clear that Slump Buster was the same adorably elusive dude he always was, our exchange felt different this time…and, yes, I’m going to take most of the credit for that. It felt better because I didn’t have any expectations. Truly!
Slump Buster wouldn’t committ (natch) to showing up at the club, but he said he’d say “hi” if he stopped by.
Surprise, surprise: Slump Buster didn’t come.
But don’t cry for me, Argentina, because there was no shortage of eye candy that night. Originally, I was supposed to meet up with an old match.com suitor for the concert, but I cancelled when I saw how much flirtation (err…I mean “networking”) potential the evening held. Instead, my ex, Cameraman Chris, agreed to be my wingman. Over the course of a couple hours, I ran into former guest chef Ryan Traster, one of Casey Call’s peeps, photographer Erik Hess (another of my new platonic pals), and a rockstar so hot he makes me mute.
It was raining men, and I was definitely wet, but I still longed for my “umbrella” (I realize I’m stretching the meterological metaphor by citing a Rhianna song, but humor me). When Slump Buster didn’t take the “Bring on the Grand Gesture!” bait, I was a tad disappointed. But I wasn’t devastated!!! That’s what I call progress, people (though it isn’t much comfort).
A lot of you are going to think I miss him for the sex. Yes, but, c’mon, we all know that from a female perspective, sexual connection is only as deep as the intimacy outside the bedroom.
Speaking of which, I remember a moment on Slump Buster’s couch one evening after I’d just blogged about my suspicions that he just wanted me as a fuck buddy. He was trying to initiate a conversation about it, but I was being fidgety and avoiding eye contact. I suddenly felt very naked despite Slump Buster’s exclamation upon my arrival that “You’re wearing a lot of clothes tonight!” as he tried to embrace me atop my cable-knit sweater. Eventually he moved his hands from my waist to my face, sort of brushed my hair back and said, “You know that’s not what this is about, right?”
I didn’t know. (And, in fact, rereading this now, perhaps I should have clarified what the meaning of “that” was.) But what I loved most about Slump Buster was that he took the blogging in stride. No matter how many times I raked him over the coals, he forgave me.
This would be in contrast to New Dude, who had to ignore the blog-—and avoid reading my memoir-—to keep our relationship in tact. (Psst…it’s easy to overlook your partner’s flaws if you never take your blindfold off.) Slump Buster seemed fearless when it came to my writing; he not only saw me, he saw through me. And he accepted me, warts and all.
There’s a scene in the movie Julie and Julia where Julia Child is upset about being unable to find a publisher for her cookbook. Her husband, Paul, reassures her by saying, “Someone is going to read your book and realize what you’ve done. Because your book is amazing. Your book is a work of genius. Your book is going to change the world. Do you hear me?”
“You are so sweet,” Julia responds. “You are the sweetest man.”
There is a tear-filled pause and Paul suddenly snaps, “Fuck them!”
That’s Slump Buster and me. To a T.
But there’s another scene in that movie between the modern day food blogger Julie and her husband which also looks a lot like the final arguments between Slump Buster and me. Hubby is pissed about how Julie pimps out their life for all of her fans, most of whom she’s never even met.
“It was supposed to be an adventure!” Julie says.
Now it's a disaster and Hubby wants out. Just before he leaves, he warns Julie not to blog about the fight. She does (but not in the balls-out way I would), and includes a veiled apology about how she hasn’t been a good wife. Hubby reads the post a few days later and shows up on their doorstep.
“What’s for dinner?” he asks. And with that, all is forgiven.
Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.
That’s how I always thought it would turn out with me and Slump Buster. (Though lest you think a bestseller and a movie deal make a happy ending, the author’s next memoir is all about butchery and adultery. I can live without those adventures, thankyouverymuch.)
But, as evidenced by Slump Buster’s absence (and me, blabbing about it), the fact is: people don’t change. At least, not in fundamental ways.
If Slump Buster is reading this, I hope he’s shaking his head with a smirk on his face and taking all this disclosure with a vat of salt. He knows I can resist blogging as much as I can resist him, which is to say: not at all. And yes, I am still insatiable; but how can I be anything but when he’s giving me so little?
Food for thought. Or whatever.
I used to say that when I was done with someone, I was done. Clearly, that’s not true, as evidenced by all the exes I stil maintain contact with. Maybe Slump Buster and I will have a face-to-face reunion. Or maybe whatever “we” were meant to be has already run its course. I don’t know. (Oh, ambiguity, my old frenemy!) All I’m sure about is that I could love that man sooooo good if only he’d let me…
***
Below, I'm posting is the song I was listening to as I pulled up to a pub downtown for my first date with Slump Buster (then known as "Irish Eyes".) While it was hate at first sight that night, and the feelings between us have been as unpredictable as unpredictable as the Minnesotan weather, one sentiment has steadily been gaining strength: Slump Buster, this tornado loves you. xoxoxxx
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