Dear John...continued...

Hollis Gillespie, a great writer, blogger and woman, wrote that memoirs/essays should be written without self-pity/bitterness. I think I'm at the in-between stage with this entry/this subject matter. Someday it will be written with more humor and less "poor me", but today isn't quite that day.

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I just realized that I have given you the name John. Of the infamous “Dear John” letters, this one is going in reverse. It’s slightly distressing to discover that online there are a huge variety of resources to help people write their own breakup letters. Or examples of letters, including those received by Mormon missionaries. That seems particularly harsh somehow. They’re off saving the unsaved, and the mrs. is at home hooking up.

Many tips include not saying you want to be friends, because that doesn’t work. I suppose in our case, since you (who dated nearly anyone) were so adamant about not being my boyfriend, why would we not still be friends? There are even forms to fill out to get an instant Dear John letter without any effort. Though I feel it’s more of an effort to read the letter then it is to write it.

Ours was a “Dear John” (or “Dear Jane”) phone call, on a layover in one of the New York airports. I was on my way to a job interview and was so happy that I’d be somewhere that I could finally get good phone reception to talk to you along the way. That happiness ended with me slumped next to an abandoned ticket desk. There was a wide berth given to me and my tears. Travelers with their own problems, concerns and issues (will I catch the flight, will my luggage make it through, where is the bathroom) all more pressing, more immediate and much safer than mine.

It’s selfish to think that I was the saddest person in that airport, probably not even the saddest one in that terminal. Though it’s never helpful to put things in perspective at the time.

Recently, I was speaking to my brother on the phone and complaining about the apartment I was renting. The apartment, an example of the worst kind of run-down, uncared for housing foisted upon recent grads (not students technically, but still no money!). The peeling paint, a door that didn’t always lock properly, a sink that wouldn’t hold water, a toilet that wouldn’t let it go, a set of back stairs that shook precariously with every cautious movement up and down it’s rickety wooden frame. And a basement that was filled with mold, leaky pipes and a ridiculous amount of past renter’s stuff. It’s the principle, if you’re moving, you take everything with you. You don’t leave things.

I was running through my complaints about the apartment, and my brother’s response? “There are worse things in the world.” If I could have reached out and slapped him across the phone lines, I would have. Yes, I realize that there are people at war, that are starving, that have lost their families, their health, their jobs. That many people would find my house a veritable palace. But while misery may love company, it loves a commensurate amount of misery.