Like Being Back In Middle School
Back when I was in 6th grade, we didn’t have email or sidekicks. Hell, the only person anyone knew with a cell phone was Zach Morris, and that thing was way too big to carry around in your book bag. So when we inexperienced and immature kids who had just discovered that weird, bizarre world of “dating” (which typically included sitting at the same table at lunch and occasionally having our parents take us to a movie) wanted to stop seeing someone, our options for dumping them were very limited. There was always the old pass-them-a-note-in-class option, or, if you were a little more “serious,” you might call their parents’ house and tell them over the phone. The best of all, however, was sending a friend to do your dirty work. Like when Susie sends her friend Jenny over to little Mikey’s table to tell him that Susie won’t be coming over after school to “play video games” anymore. Leaving Mikey to be duly ridiculed for the rest of lunch up to and including having chocolate milk dumped on his head and/or getting his French Fries stolen.
Ah, but now we are in the 21st and century and kids are ass deep in MySpace, texts and IM’s. They have lightning-fast email so Susie can tell Mikey during 2nd period computers over email that she doesn’t want to “hang out” anymore and he can sit across the room and deal with it by himself as he reads his screen. Or she can send him a text at lunch. Or an IM at night. And while there really is no good way to break up with someone, the advent of technology has at least given us the ability to cut out the middle man, and no longer does Jenny have to be involved in any of Susie and Mikey’s affairs. Faceless, unilateral dumpings can be done with the push of a button, so the dumper doesn’t have to deal with any arguments from the dumpee, but said dumpee still at least knows that their presence is no longer appreciated. And oddly enough, since the kids can do it so can the adults.
As I said, there is no good way to tell someone you will no longer be sleeping with them. There just isn’t. But once you are past a certain age, say, oh, 14, once you have had sex with someone multiple times you generally let them know directly when you don’t want it to happen anymore. You can use email, text, phone call, post-it note, whatever. What you do not do is this: You do not send a coworker into the job of the person you are dumping to say “Hey, you know so-and-so? Yeah, she just wanted to say she’s sorry she hasn’t called you back and that she is back with her ex-boyfriend. Have a good night.” At which point the female bartender working next to the guy who just got dumped says “Was that for real?” and he nods his head yes and she says “Wow, that’s really fucked up!” Yes, Kathy, yes it was.
In this day and age, there are a number of ways to deliver that message. Sending your coworker to a busy Friday-Night bar during happy hour to do it right before the rush comes is not one of those ways. Fortunately, Kathy, my coworker, had a little more tact than my 6th Grade lunch buddies and did not dump a bottle of Grey Goose on my head leaving me soaked in alcohol for the rest of the night. And I was not at all surprised by this turn of events. But I had expected a little more out of someone with an advanced degree.
By the end of the night, I was pretty much over it. I had worked my ass off and made a lot of money and was laughing about it with Kathy and the rest of the lady bartenders. Who all agreed with that it was, in fact, “Fucked up.” I have decided to invoke the wisdom of Dr. Alex Karev by telling myself “Stop moping around. You got to have sex with a hot chick. Quit being a little baby and enjoy it.” And so I leave myself not with the memories of being dumped at work by a third party, but rather with the memories of having sex with a tall, pretty blonde who drove a hot convertible and had a sweet apartment. About how tight she was and the face she made when she climaxed. Or pretended to. About the landing strip of pubic hair she had, and how she hated wearing clothes. About looking out her panoramic view of
So while last Friday will forever be remembered as the day I got dumped at work, I will choose to remember the sex and not the end. After all, its March for chrissakes. It’s a lot easier to bang spring breakers when you don’t have to lie about it.