Mr. Unavailable #113: The Sacrifice

See The Phoenix Rises, Paper Perfect, More Nouveau, Please, Visions of Sundance, Spring Fever, Fantasyland and It’s Purely Textual for the background on this one.

After waiting all day Thursday for #113 to text back with a time he was free and hearing nothing, I went to bed, depressed.

At 11:56 p.m., he texted:

#113: So crazy today, tomorrow?

I waited until Friday morning to respond. This time, I responded much more guardedly.

Me: Sure. Let me know when you’re free.

I went about my day, but, again, the hours went by. And as they did, it became more and more clear that I was not a priority for him. I was merely an option. 

This was the kind of thing that was crazy-making. Didn't he come to New York primarily to see me? Or did I have a super-inflated ego? Or was that what he had wanted me to believe? I reviewed his past texts: He wanted to spend more time with me…he wanted to take me back to Arizona with him. No, I wasn't crazy.

I met up with Eva and her friend Yasmine, who was in from L.A., for dinner. I’d hung out with Yasmine before. She’d written the most-read relationship article on The Huffington Post and was about to come out with a book that had the same title as the article.

When she’d originally sent us a message over Facebook saying she was coming back to town and wanted to hang, I replied regretfully but optimistically:  “Hey Girl, I have a boy in from out of town. I probably won’t be able to hang out on Friday but I’ll let you know if anything changes. I’m sorry to miss you! XoT”

I followed it up with a different kind of message Thursday night: “I may see you after all. The guy is MIA.”

And then Friday afternoon I texted her: “Hey, let’s meet for dinner.”

By the time we all met up for dinner at the Thai place on Houston at 9:30 p.m., I still hadn’t heard anything from #113.

“I’m trying to decide where my line is,” I said. “Unfortunately, I think I’ve crossed it. I’m done. If he contacts me now, forget it.”

“You can keep it light and polite,” Yasmine said. “’Hey, I’m already out with some peeps. Catch you next time.’ I want to see a photo of this guy.”

I pulled up his Facebook profile on my phone and prefaced the photo-reveal with what I always preface it with. “He photographs really well,” I said. “He doesn’t really look like this. He looks all suave and charismatic and confident in his photos but, in real life, he’s really nerdy and kind of hunched over and more humble looking.”

I gave her my phone so she could see. “Oh, no, no, no,” she said. “Look at the ego on that one. Oh, no.”

“But that’s not really what he looks like,” I said.

“But that’s what he puts forth,” she said. “No. I’m dating a neuroscientist and the egos on these guys are astronomical. This guy is rich and he probably has women undeservedly flocking to him—especially if that’s what he wants them to see.”

It was true. I wasn’t so attracted to him when I first met him, but all the stuff that surrounded him—primarily the air of nouveau docteur riche and intelligence—was like some kind of drug. And then, on top of that, when I saw how truly nerdy he was, I found him endearing. I thought he was different. I thought he was a nice Jewish neurologist without the power-tripping attitude. Clearly, I was wrong.

At 10:18 p.m., he texted. I read it and then sullenly handed my phone to Yasmine, shaking my head slowly. She read it out loud so Eva could hear.

“’Friend is playing at the living room on Ludlow street. Come join. If you can,’” she read.

I was angry. “If you can”? Where was the, “I want to take you back to Arizona with me”? Not only that, but, obviously, he was able to make plans with his friends but he was not able to make plans with me—he was only able to fit me in where it was convenient.

I started to formulate a light-and-polite response about how I was busy: “Hey…” I started.

“Don’t even respond,” Yasmine said. “He’s on a power trip. To see if he can get you to come running when he wants you to. To see if you’re up for doing everything on his terms. He’s not going to make a plan or want to know your schedule. He’s incapable of a relationship.”

I was done. But what was the best way to be done? “Is not responding the best way to cut it off?” I asked, slicing my hand through the air.

“He doesn’t deserve a response. What a loser,” Eva said.

“Yeah,” I said, agreeing, “why postpone inevitable pain.”

“I don’t even get that,” Eva said. Eva was still inexorably intertwined with the ex-con. They were no longer seeing each other romantically, but they couldn’t manage to extricate themselves from the mutually fueled drama.

“Why bother. He’s not what I thought he was,” I said, “or what he pretends to be.”

And then Yasmine described how she exorcises men such as these from her reality. “What I like to do is envision myself as if in old Aztec times. I’m wrapped in the Aztec skins or fabrics or whatever they are, with the beads around my neck and everything and I take the guy and put him in a basket and there’s, you know, I imagine the pyramids that they had and I walk up the steps of the pyramid and I place the basket at the top and then I offer him to the Aztec gods or whatever and then I walk back down. And I leave him there. And then if I ever start to think about him, I just imagine him up on the top of the pyramid in that basket, where I left him.”

“Like a sacrifice,” I said. “I have to give him to the universe to let the universe know that I’m not having any of this.”

“Exactly,” she said.

So I went home and sacrificed him. It's only been a few days, so I figure he's currently suffering from exposure.

Signs of Hope: For me? Because I’m not putting up with any of this bullshit? Lots.

Red Flags: The Mr. Unavailables just keep piling up. Maybe this will be my last Unavailable experience. No, this will be my last unavailable experience.

Turning Point: When he texted me Friday night with no apology, no regrets for being flaky, nothing, except to act like I was his beck-and-call girl.

Diagnosis: For him: He has a chronic and terminal case of unavailability.
For me: Well, I’m not taking it personally, which is a small miracle, and, because he’s now stranded at the top of an Aztec pyramid, he can no longer bother me. I’m moving on—quickly, in fact. I already have a date on Monday.