How to Say Goodbye

The Timeline of a breakup

Think of all that we’ve been through
Breaking up is hard to do.
Neil Sedaka – Breaking up is Hard to do

Neil had it right. It is hard to say, “Ciao, baby”.
Especially when we have been through so much together. Especially when we imagined that the other person cared for us.
After all, I love you. So you must love me. Right?

We broke up with playground buddies every summer when we were in school. We waved goodbye to our BFFs with whom we shared our personal tragedies.
First kiss.
First blowout with Mom and Dad.
First report card failures.

At the end of every summer job or vacation, we said, “We will always be in touch”.
Until we are not. The texts, emails, FB messages and skypes are fewer and fewer. More time passes. Then the filament breaks.

I have gone through many breakups, The tears. The drama.
Finally, relief.
Thank god.
I really dodged the bullet.

End of my marriage? Lost everything.
I prayed to the universe: “Please, God, let him suffer”.
Later, these thoughts were replaced by: “Who?”
It seemed so long ago.
Living well and complete apathy are the best revenge.

Breakups are like going to a bad party.
You spend time getting dressed up, invested in impressing.
You walk through the front door.
You realize immediately: This is going to be bad.
You think: I overdressed. This shirt is too tight. The heels too high. I wish I was at home in my old bleach stained PJs with bare feet. A keg of Pinot Grigio and a bowl of buttered popcorn.

Standing in the foyer, watching the giddy partiers, my optimistic self talk was alluring. “Maybe I will meet someone interesting.” I lied to myself. Betrayed by my brain. All the while, my more sensible gut was screaming, “Forget your coat. Dump the drink. Run to the closest exit.”

But, I stayed for the long awkward silences. Wandering, invisibly, by the tête-à-têtes, until I found a corner with complementary camouflaging wallpaper. There, I observed the others, focusing on their body language. Feeling like a Sesame Street song. One of these is not like the others. One of these doesn’t belong.
That “one” would be me.

Recently, I met up with a friend of over twenty years. Our relationship began with shared grief from the death of our friend. It grew through our mutual health challenges. Her marriage. My divorce. Her increasing wealth and fame.
My? Oh…
Maybe that should have been the clue. Her global jaunts. Her book signings.
My? Well, there you have it.
I have no currency. I am not famous or fabulous. I cannot increase book sales. I can only be a good and loyal friend. And sometimes, that is just not enough.

We used to see each other monthly. I introduced her to my literary friends. She sent them her poetry.

We saw each other every few months. We spent hours chatting, walking her dogs, laughing about our infatuation with all things cinematic. She made me lunch, scoffing that I was gluten free and lactose intolerant, whilst serving me ice cream with shortbread.

We saw each other twice a year. She suggested we meet 15 minutes prior to the start of a movie. She opined that I needed to get on with my life. Perhaps share with her why I was such a loser? Unfortunately, I had no time to share my shortcomings. She had to run.

She did not show for our next movie. “Sorry. Some guy just dinged my car when I was parking. Think I’ll just go home.” I was left holding the non-refundable tickets.

We saw each other once a year. I asked about her new home in The Bahamas. She discussed her Twitter followers. She promised to send me a copy of her newest publication if I could not attend the book launch.

My father died. I missed the book signing. The book never came.

We met up one month ago. She was coming to town. Would I like to meet for lunch at Starbucks? She was pressed for time. Dentist appointment. Her handsome partner was coming, too. She said, “He misses seeing you.”
I watched myself get dressed. I put on old jeans and flipflops. Might as well be comfortable for the end.
She arrived sans companion. “He is busy. The dog is sick.”
She got a latte and a banana, while chatting for 10 minutes with the barista. When she sat, I asked about her life. Her travels. Her book sales. Her Facebook followers. Her blog.
Then, a mis-step. I asked her advice on getting published.
How to begin.
Who to contact.
“You should Google it. I am sure there have been others like you.”

Not noticing the ominous calm signalling an incoming tsunami, I continued. “Well, actually I have been accepted by a publisher. It is a start.”
“Never heard of them. I only publish with large American digital magazines. It gives me such a large following.”
“But, my daughter and her friends read this one. So do I.”
“Never heard of them. But, then, I don’t have to submit to these smaller magazines. I have 2 books listed on Amazon.”
“Right. I remember that you were going to send…”
“You can buy it on Amazon.”
“You had promised to send me a…”
“Just google me. My book is on my homepage.”
“I can’t afford it. I am going back to school.”
“You are?! You should have told me.”

I had. For 2 years, I told her about my struggles to upgrade my marks and pay my rent. Later, I sent her an email about my acceptance into college.

Pressing forward, I said, “Sorry, I have no money to buy your book.”
“Alright. I will send you one in the mail. You should have one.”
I probably should. I helped to pick the cover photo.

The book arrived today. Inscribed. “To a dear friend.”
Why don’t I feel any better?
Why does it feel like it is over?
Maybe, I am just tired of being the also ran. The plus one. The poor relative.
I am starting to think that I deserve a friend who loves me. I deserve more than tolerance from my friend.

So, how do I do it? Move on. Start fresh.

Why bother when it seems it will end, eventually?

You will go.
Or I will.

After all that we’ve been through. Goodbye might be the best thing that we can do.

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