I’m Never Gonna Dance Again …

… Guilty feet I’ve got no rhythm. – George Michael

What is it about a break-up that has the ability to stricken a reasonably sane individual (i.e., me) with temporary amnesia? Fresh off mine and Hollywood’s break-up I constantly find myself resisting the urge to romanticize things. For the last week and a half I’ve been plagued with break-up remorse. And it doesn’t help that our Big, little city is riddled with his imprint.

Look there’s our tree! Yes, we had a tree. And every time I walk past it, I think of what might have been. And then I remember how my completely sh*twrecked boyfriend referred to my very Southern, very conservative uncle as “Black Caesar – The Godfather of Harlem” to-his-face, SIX TIMES. Or rather how he slurred to my uncle six times that he was “Blackkk Sleezer.” “Dude, you’re like Black Sleezer man … black sleezer … the guard follower of Harlequin.” I can’t get his words out my head or my heart. Every day I remind myself it called a break-up because we will never be anything more than a couple of humans.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not entirely sure we wouldn’t have made it over the Black Sleezer hump. The whole scene was rather comical. And while my uncle doesn’t favor Black Caesar at all – couldn’t all of us use more references to 70s pimp films in our life? More 70s pimp films and more cowbell damn it! 

Aside from that, I make “accidents,” “incidents” for a living. There aren’t many things in life that a good publicist can’t put a positive spin on. Had Hollywood been a client of mine, I would have immediately released a statement on his behalf 1-acknowledging his behavior, 2-apologizing to any and all parties who were involved, 3- touched on possible solution (i.e. time to reflect in sayyy-rehab??) and 4-asking for privacy as Hollywood and I dealt with the matter privately. Voila! All’s well, that ends well!

I also could have made arrangements for Hollywood to accidentally bump into Black Sleezer’s and purposely buy him a glass of his favorite scotch. In the South there aren’t many things that can’t be settled of cocktails or hunting. Preferably not in the same vein.

There was also the anticipation of a “Say Anything” grand gesture. A few days after the smoke cleared he called. It was after midnight and because I’m super cool I had just finished an episode of the “Golden Girls.” I’d deleted his number and ringtone from my phone, yet I instinctively knew it was him. 917-Grand-Gesture. This is it! “Hello” I answered in an ohmigoshican’tbelieveyoucalled voice. “Hey Pretty what’s up?” “Just reading Sense and Sensibility.I lied. For whatever reason it was the first thing that popped into my mind. When in doubt, channel Jane Austen. Because, nothing says I’m over you more than period literature. “Is everything ok?” I asked. He sounded like he’d been jogging up a hill covered in dead baby angles.  “No …” he said. It took everything in me not to race to my window. I envisioned his chiseled frame sans shirt outside of my window blasting “I’m Never Gonna Dance Again.” 

“I keep getting phone calls and text messages from f*cking male prostitutes and trannys!” Sccrrrrrrr. While it was a grand gesture, it certainly wasn’t what I’d envisioned. Trannys? Are you f*cking kidding me. “They’re sending me naked pictures and sh*t!” he whined. “I’m like 1 900 chicks-with-dicks! … I don’t even know what to say.”

He wasn’t the only one who was speechless. So I just said the first thing I could think of … “You know when life gives you lemonade …. I mean, you can like, make a lot of different things H” I stuttered. “You could make pie … you could make lemon shots … you could make a salt scrub for your feet” I added. “I mean … I just – well, that just really sucks for you … I hate that.” And I did hate it for him. While our relationship had ended on one of the most random notes EVER – I didn’t care for him or about him any less. And I think it goes without saying that I wouldn’t feel good about him waking up in the “Crying Game.” Especially if he didn’t want to be.

“Do you know how I can make it stop?” he asked in a father knows best tone. “Uhmmmm … no?” I answered. Then it hit me. Whapppp! This wasn’t a grand gesture phone call. This was a warning shot through the heart – verbally speaking. So apparently Hollywood and I hadn’t broken up on the roof of a building last week. Noooo – we’d broken up in 1994 under the bleachers, behind the football field – after school. I believe that was the last time salty break-up pranks were of the moment? Yes?- No. Hollywood was passively aggressively sending a warning shot. And I heard him loud and clear. Game on H. Game on.

Meanwhile, back in 2010 I sat on the edge of my bed listening to the worlds tiniest violin conducted by Mr. Lights Camera Action. And as I listened, I flashed back over the past couple of months and this time without  rose-colored Stoli. Realistically, the roof was nothing more than a means to an end. We’d metaphorically been on the roof for the last two months. Every time plans were broken, we were on the roof. Every night we were too tired to spend time together we were on the roof. Every holiday we missed together, we were on the roof. It’s a funny thing, ending a relationship. Sometimes things fall apart – on and off the roof. Hollywood didn’t have to be sh*twrecked, for me to know our relation”ship” was wrecked. 

After our conversation, which proved itself to be completely obnoxious by the end. “I’m thinking about calling my cousin that works for the bureau.” I’d heard all I could take. I decided to be proactive and I write myself a little note about missing Hollywood. It went a little something like this …

Dear Pretty One,

Next time you find yourself missing H, do yourself a favor and don’t. Remind yourself that the guy you fake-n-baked “welcome home brownies” called your very Southern, very conservative uncle – “Black Sleezer – The Godfather of Harlem.” SIX TIMES. He was guarded and never seemed to open up about that creepy scar on his abdomen. Maybe he was a drug mule? Maybe not. You just don’t know. Do you? Not to mention the fact that he was a wildebeest by the hair. Honestly, did you want to pass that gene on to your unborn children. Ok, granted the hair was a bit of a turn on – but still. In the end, the guy thought you gave his # to tranny prostitutes!!! Aren’t you better than that? Yes.You.Are. And even though you’ll miss him (just a little), this to shall pass. 

P.S. – Did you really want him playing “I’m Never Gonna Dance Again” outside your window?? Really.

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About The.Pretty.One

"I will never be the woman with the perfect hair, who can wear white and not spill on it.” - Carry Bradshaw The Pretty One is the youngest daughter of a former 70s pageant queen and her first husband, a wealthy financier. A former debutante and southern belle, this Steel Magnolia is anything but. A visionary, she is the owner and creative mind behind a successful boutique communications and event firm. But what I really want to do is dance ... and blog.
This entry was posted in 80s Nostalgia, Break-Up, Humor, Love, Notes To Self, Relationships and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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