DAY 30: The Break Up (Prequel) 89/90

PRELUDE: Early on in the 30-day blog marathon I told the story of The Breakup. If you don’t recall or didn’t read it, click the link above. Now this is what happened approximately 29 days earlier…

It was sometime in mid-August of 1999 and Monica and I were about to celebrate our third anniversary. In honor of this milestone, she wanted to take me somewhere “nice.” She didn’t give me any details; I was just instructed to wear something “nice.”

I was a year out of college and just a lowly assistant at a then-top music magazine that didn’t require me to wear anything “nice” on a regular basis, so when it came to “nice” gear I had few options. Since I had nothing to go by regarding specifics of the dress code for wherever it was we were going, I opted for the Sean John ensemble that I copped for cheap at Burlington Coat Factory. It was a pair of blue slacks with a matching short-sleeved sweater top that zipped up in the front. I topped (or I guess bottomed) the whole thing off with a pair of all-black Skechers dress shoes I got from my boss. Oh, and of course, I tied my locks (which I still had back then) back in a neat ponytail to maintain some semblance of respectability and social decorum.

I looked “nice” (well, for that age and time at least), but it was the middle of summer and I was hot as all hell wearing a damn sweater top. Don’t know what I was thinking, it was August for Pete’s sake. Needless to say, my wardrobe selection didn’t sit well with me, but nothing else in my closet fit my interpretation of what “nice” could be. My physical discomfort and the fact I had to dress up on a Saturday put me in a bad mood. I just wasn’t up for celebrating anything, all I wanted was to be comfortable in some jeans or some shorts, but that wasn’t going to happen if Monica had anything to do with it. She planned something “nice” and I was just going to have to grin and bear it.

Monica and I hopped on the train and headed to an unknown destination in the city. She was giddy and happy, while I was grumpy and hot. When we reached 14th St., Monica announced that this was our stop. We emerged from the subway and it was even hotter than when we left the house. Ugh.

Despite my discomfort and ill mood, I still loved Monica and was curious as to what she had planned. I actually worked in the area and couldn’t imagine where she’d be taking me that I had to look “nice.” We walked through Union Square and she stopped on the corner of 16th and Broadway.

“We’re here,” she announced.

“Word? Here,” I replied, looking up at the Blue Water Grill.

I passed this place all the time and just always saw it as too rich for my blood. All I ever saw was wealthy-looking White folk smoking cigarettes in the outside seating area with power suits and big brand names. In fact, one of the bigwigs at my job ordered from there regularly and I glanced at the menu once and the prices seemed pretty steep. What the hell were we doing here?

We walked into the restaurant and Monica gave her name so the maître d’ could find our reservation. As we waited to be seated, I looked around the respectable space. I felt overwhelmed and totally out of place. I was uncomfortable. Not because of the heat this time, but because I felt like me, my Sean John outfit—minimal logos and all—and my “urban” hair just didn’t belong here. Looking back, it was silly, I know, but at 23, I was still used to Red Lobster, Olive Garden and Pizzeria Uno’s as fine dining (don’t front on them Red Lobster biscuits). Monica didn’t seem to notice my discomfort, though, because I kept up an uneasy front as not to ruin her enjoyment.

Shortly thereafter we were escorted to our table. It was still relatively early, like 6pm or somewhere around there, because the restaurant was pretty empty. We sat down and our waiter came over and introduced himself.

“Good evening, my name is Raoul and I will be your server tonight. Today’s specials are blah, blah, blah…”

Ever notice how whenever a waiter rambles off the specials you never really get a full grasp of everything they’re saying? You might just hear key words like “salmon,” “broiled,” “prime rib” or “sauce.” Whatever the case was I wasn’t interested in anything Raoul was selling.

“Okay, just give us a minute with the menu,” I responded once he was done with his monologue.

“No problem, sir. May I get you something to drink?”

“What do you have?”

“We have… blah, blah, blah…”

He rattled off a list of different wines, which I hadn’t the foggiest clue about (I still needed to step my wine connoisseurship up, but a nice glass of Riesling is my ish). “Nah, I’m good for now,” I replied. “But we’ll start with some water for now.”

“Tap or distilled?”

“Uhm, I guess tap is fine.”

“No problem, sir.”

“Thanks.”

Once Raoul left, Monica smiled and beamed, “Do you like it?”

“Yeah, it’s cool. I walk by this place all the time, but never thought about coming here.”

“Yeah, Tiffany told me about it and said it was really nice.”

“Cool.”

Raoul returned a short while later with our “tap” water, and Monica and I—who finally had time to peruse the menu—proceeded to place our food and drink order. Once our glasses of champagne came, we made a toast to our three years.

I don’t recall what we ate. I don’t recall what we had for dessert. I don’t remember how much the bill was or who paid. I believe we caught a movie afterwards. All I know is we made love that night and then approximately 29 days later we broke up.

As I was writing this I didn’t really know how I was going to end this story. Something in me just wanted to get this off my chest and just figure it out as I went along. But as I got these thoughts out, I began to recall how, at the time, none of my relationships had gone past the three-year mark. My first was just under three, and my second, a pseudo-relationship of sorts, only lasted two years with gaps in between. Then I had another two year span of complete and utter aloneness in college before I found Monica. No one before her and since (except for one other extended pseudo-relationship that I’ll save for another time) had ever lasted longer than three years.

Perhaps as Monica and I reached our 1,095th day of togetherness the shit started to scare me. Maybe my preconceived time schedule of how long a relationship typically lasted for me was ringing in the back of my head and was what had put me in such a pissy mood on what was supposed to be a joyous moment. I really don’t know (or maybe I’m not willing to admit it just yet). Whatever the case, Monica didn’t deserve my shitty attitude. We went through a lot together and experienced many great memories, but I guess our journey together had run its course.

Looking back on my behavior that night, I guess the writing was on the proverbial wall but neither Monica or I wanted to read it. We just avoided that unsaid fact until 29 days later when I was forced to make a decision about us that, at the time, I didn’t even realize needed to be made. Not to mention I had something that I had to tell Monica, but that’s something better saved for a part three…

To be concluded…

UPDATED: Pt. 3, Soundtrack to a Break Up