A New Version of
Me
By: Tommy Girl
copyright@2004
Dreams are cheap, it's making them come true that costs a bundle. That's Jay's philosophy and that's why I'm leaving him. He doesn't know this yet. I haven't been able to figure out how to broach the topic what with the ongoing lectures on my impulsive behavior and his constant questions regarding this dream of mine.
"Dreams are cheap, it's making them come true that costs a bundle," Jay states casually as he finishes his crossword puzzle. That's how he approaches everything, a problem to be solved.
"So you've said," I reply. This is not a new conversation. In fact, it's getting quite old if you ask me (though he never does), but he constantly states it every time he looks at me with my new short-and-spikey-I've-recenly-quit-my-job-with-no-savings-to-fall-back-on-to-pursue-music haircut and less-than-stellar wardrobe. It's his new bible-thumping motto, as though he believes if he says it enough, it will suddenly sink in and I'll see the error of my ways.
Don't get me wrong. Jay wants me to be happy. He does love me and want what's best for me, but we tend to disagree on what it will take to satisfy my life ennui. Jay finds it hard to believe that a dream I had when I was a kid could still make me happy. Logically, it's unlikely to him, and it's all about making sense with Jay.
You see, the thing about Jay, the thing I think I'm starting to realize, is that he's one of those nine-to-fivers and he loves every minute of it. He's happy putting on his suit, carrying his briefcase, and undertaking the mundane work that people pile on his desk. He practically thrives on it. And what does that say about him? Or me for that matter-that I could be with a guy who loves that sort of tediousness?
"Are you even listening to me Rae?" he asks, sipping the last of his coffee before washing the cup off and placing in the dishwasher. I watch him and get sick at the sight. He can't even leave a cup out of place. I wonder if it would actually kill him, to leave something incomplete for a few hours. He dries off his hands and stares at me. It's a stare I used to love, the type that said he is honest-to-god trying to figure me out, but now it's upsetting…because he only wants to figure me out so that he can fix me, I think.
This is why I'm leaving. Because I want to have those romantic, novelized memories of him and love in general. When we met, I signed on for the heat and energy that coursed between us, not the day-to-day grind of watching him dump his teabag five times (always five times) into his cup before tossing it into the trash or the way he flossed, brushed, and gargled in exact increments.
That was too much for me. I've known it for a long time, I think, because these things don't come on all of a sudden. It feels like a virus that infects your computer-one minute everything's fine and next thing you know it's all frozen-but there were signs. It just became more obvious when I had my epiphany and he was less than supportive.
"Where are you going to get the money for a new guitar? Or this recording equipment you keep talking about? You quit your job, remember?"
I remember. It was probably one of the three best moments of my life-walking into my bipolar she-devil of a boss' office, dropping my resignation on the desk, and heading out the doors to fresh air and freedom. So long false insurance claims and hello punk rock chic. No matter how many times I explain it to Jay, no matter how much of an excited inflection I insert into my voice, Jay remains unmoved by the whole thing.
I shrug, "It'll work itself out."
"How, pray tell, will it do that?"
I shrug again, this time because I know it will infuriate him, and reply, "It just will, Jay."
He shakes his head, glances at his watch, and says, "We'll have to talk about this later. Since only one of us is working, I can't afford to lose my job."
Like that would ever happen. Jay is adored. He is the worker bee to the max and no one is going to give up that type of production from a guy who never quibbles about salary or gets caught up in any of those nasty work dramas. Jay will be working for his company until retirement.
I'd kill myself. He doesn't seem to get that. That yes, I was moving up the corporate ladder of the insurance business and making a decent salary, but I hated it. I mean, it's never a good sign when you're reading insurance claims talking about severe spinal injuries and the only though you have is, "That would get me out of working here for awhile."
I tried to see Jay's point of view. I even understood his shock in the beginning. It sort of shocked me that I actually did it after years of saying it to friends in conversation or thinking it whenever I was around the she-devil. It happened so quickly too. I woke up one morning, got on the bus toward the office, and it hit me as the song "Thunder Road" echoed through my headphones. This would be life. This would be what I do every day until I die. And it undid me. I didn't get off the bus at my stop, just rode around for another hour or so, and when I finally arrived at work to the sounds of shouting in my direction, I knew what I had to do.
An epiphany: I was meant for something different than this, something more.
I remembered that band I was in during high school and college and how happy I was back then…I wanted it back. Not so much to recapture my youth, but recapture that love for life that I once had. I needed to feel like I was accomplishing something, working toward something that I could leave behind and years from now, some random girl would be moved to quit her own hell of a job.
I had to do it, you see. I had to grab this epiphany of mine and go with it, the hell with the consequences and the logical knowledge that I would most likely end up living in a paper box behind the grocery store.
So I comprehended his worries and the initial surprise regarding my decision. But that was weeks ago and Jay still thinks it's crazy. He refuses to see what I'm trying to accomplish. He's too caught up in reconfiguring our budget and seeing how far this sets us back on that lifeline he's created for us. "We'll have to wait another few years to get married now…"
Is it strange to love someone, but want to kill them? To feel so much…something…that it's almost revolting to meet their gaze because of everything it says about you.
Jay kisses my cheek and picks up his briefcase. He glances back at me. It's a new look I've become accustomed to, the what-have-you-done-with-the-woman-I-love glare. He says, "I'll see you tonight."
I nod. There is nothing really to say. I can't tell him that he won't see me tonight because I'm leaving. I can't say that it's for his own good because I can already tell he doesn't like this new version of me while I love her. There's no easy way to end love-that's probably why so many people take the coward's way out. I think the end of love comes across better in a note or a song or the simple quiet of coming home to an empty apartment. It's the spoken words-the stutters, the faux words of endearment and condescending pats on the hand-that destroy things, that make the only memory of what was between two people be that last image.
He walks out the door and I study his form as it gets smaller in the distance. A part of me thinks about chasing after him, giving him one more chance to embrace this new version of me, but I know how it will go. I can see myself doing what I did for years with my job, rationalizing away, compartmentalizing pieces of me that don't fit the mold he wants and only bringing those out when he's not around. That's not the life I want for myself.
Instead I wave and head toward the bedroom to gather up my stuff. I'll be gone by the time he gets home.
{Fin}