How starving kids in Guantanamo can benefit from your heartbreak.
Two weeks ago in Dallas.
“Just throw it. Pretend it is a football. It was cheaper than a football anyway.” I encourage my Emma, my dearest childhood friend, who is clutching a cheap porcelain figurine like it’s the crown royal.
“Auna, that is harsh. It’s just so, so, I don’t know….” She stammers, racking her brain for any excuse not to heave the reminder off her balcony. Unearthing nothing…. She sighs exasperated by my persistence. So in order to get me to shut up, she arches her back, winds her arm… and from her third floor condo, hurls the colorful representation of a union-gone-wrong into the parking lot.
We both stare in disbelief as the ceramic pieces fly into the dark night. The sound of smashing startling us both…. She turns to me for reassurance that she wasn’t going to hell of this 90210-type activity. The silence of the broken memento below is purifying and my words are worthless. Her face had transformed from traumatized to empowered. The simple act of destroying something into smithereens reignited vigor, a first step toward dismantling the pain her ex heaved on her two weeks ago. There is something so liberating when something is so busted, that there is no way you can glue or tape it back together. So instead, you pick the broken pieces up off the tarmac and throw them in a garbage bin, knowing they’ll be hauled off to some compound far far away.
Wet mascara is smudged and her nose is runny, but we walk back inside where a large cardboard box packed few of stuff is staring at us, mocking us, daring us to do something totally crazy with its contents. There is a gold necklace, a pair of diamond earrings…. A bracelet from Tiffany’s, and then the books, movies and ticket stubs that occupied Saturday nights. And finally our eyes fall on the framed sketch of her beloved asshole displayed prominently on the table…. But I remind her that luckily that “stuff” doesn’t include mortgages and children and a lawyer.
“I have an idea.” I say, thrilled that my physics has taught me Newton’s principle of energy; it cannot be created or destroyed, but simply converted.
She holds up a ‘Learn Hindi’ DVD in one hand and the diamond earrings in the other, “Seriously, what am I supposed to do? It’d be bad juju to hand this stuff off to my friends. Who’d want it anyway? I feel bad, it was all so, so expensive.” She explains, staring longingly at a pink silk nightie on the on the chair.
“Where are you scissors?” I demand.
“In the top drawer in the kitchen.” She replies, confused.
I grab the pink nightie, “Cut it.”
“What?” She shrieks! “Are you crazy.”
“Clearly. Come on. You know it’s good for you.” Sometimes tough love is necessary.
With a newfound sense of confidence, she begins at the delicate lace, until all that is left is tattered, unrecognizable silk with a la perla label hanging limp. She gropes the leftovers to her chest like it’s some meowing kitten.”
“Garbage bin.” I point.
Next, the jewelry, pulling out my digital camera I hold up the weighty Tiffany’s bracelet, “Do you still have the box for this? It is always better to have it look as new as possible.”
Tears begin rolling down her tender freckled cheeks. I wasn’t being very sensitive. The reality of removing each memory piece-by-piece from her apartment was slowly hitting her. The “getting over” a relationship is sometimes more painful than the breakup itself.
Hell, I hadn’t fallen in love is so many years; I forgot how impossible it is to try and climb out.
I hand her a tissue and pat the space next to me on her white leather couch, “Okay, let’s take a break.”
Weeping, she sniffles “Sometimes I don’t know how I didn’t see it coming. But all the romantic dinners, the flowers, bringing my family champagne, it was blinding. And now a year of my life is gone.” She snaps her fingers, “Signora.”
I’m at a loss. Mostly because I agree with her, I’m baffled how she didn’t detect, or foresee this nightmare from unfolding? She is an engineer. She is logical and doesn’t hurt people. So how someone could cheat on such a kindred soul is beyond me. But this guy managed to not only cheat on her, but he led her to believe that he wouldn’t do it again. Then, did it again. This isn’t something about male bashing, but more about analyzing cheaters and their behavior in general. Are we genetically wired to be either the “good” or the “bad” guy, or can good people do bad things?
But what about the good people who just get screwed over? Are they at fault because they fell victim to something they believed was perfect? I just can’t reconcile it – I mean Emma, she defies innocent and has been abandoned, baffled as to what she did wrong and emotionally crippled. I wanted to rip his head off. But since I didn’t have access to a rifle, nor had access to his address, I decided the best way to retaliate would be to auction off the “loot”.
I begin explaining, “We’re going upload the photos of the jewelry on ebay. And then we’ll sell it to the highest bidders.”
“Wait, wait.” She starts to interrupt me.
I hold up my hand, “I know what you’re thinking. You feel guilty selling this stuff, plus you think the money has nasty karma attached to it.”
She nods.
I continue, “So that’s why you’re going to a choose a charity and we’ll donate the proceeds. For instance, those diamond earrings, easily a caret each, well those will go for at least $1000. Some woman in Detroit will be ecstatic for the deal she scored, and some starving kids in Africa will eat for the next few months.”
Starting to understand the methodology, she is mentally calculating how much she could accrue from the jewelry, but her eyes rest on the earrings a little too longingly for her to be 100% game for this exercise.
She needed more convincing, “And even more important than the malnourished children and the stranger in Idaho, you’ll be free of this stuff. You don’t want his dirty energy collecting dust in your jewelry box! I’m warning you: If you don’t throw the old stuff out, how will you have room for the new stuff that someone fabulous, someone even better, the next person will bring you? Let’s think of your jewelry box like your heart.”
I got serious, “How will you ever have space for the future, if you can’t let go of the past?”
“You can get too metaphorical.” She laughs.
“Yeah, but it’s the metaphors, all that esoteric BS that actually dictates our choices, our decisions, if we’re not emotionally engaged, invested in something bigger than that moment, than why should we care if someone cheats on us, or we made a mistake, or love anyone at all? If eventually hearts will get ripped out of chests. Then why bother?” I frame the rather hypothetically, curious as to what my little nerdy engineer will say.
“Because I don’t know…. I guess I want to believe that the right guy is out there and he hasn’t found me yet?” Smiling, clearly proud of her astute response, she whispered, “You haven’t seen the worst of it yet… he bought me this ridiculous dress. It’s heinous with sequins, some weird French designer, but guess what? The tag is still attached. Watch… we’ll make a fortune.”
